When Your Mom Calls At Five AM Wanting To Borrow A Gun...

... the first question out of your mouth isn't "Why?" But rather, "Which one?"

Well, it is if you're me, anyway.

Yes, life continues to be an amalgamation of the amazing. Some really awesome storms have been ripping through Ohio lately. If you've been following my Twitter feed you know that it's been above 90 degrees as late as 10 PM these days, and you've also seen pics of golf-ball sized hail. The one thing I can't take a picture of is the fact that around 300,000 people in my state do not have power at the moment. Well, I could take a picture but it would be rather... dark.

My parents are among the 300k, but we're resourceful people. You can imagine the same couple that has a backhoe at their disposal also has a generator, so they're doing alright. However, the generator cord isn't quite allowing the back door to shut all the way, and sometime around 4 AM a particularly curious mammal with opposable thumbs figured that out.

So what do you do when there's a raccoon in the kitchen? Call your daughter and borrow her rifle.

It seems pretty straightforward, but raccoons aren't really that excited about being shot at. Plus, Abby (yes, the Scottish Terrier of tunneling under the road fame) had it in her head that *this* was her redeeming moment and was doing her damn-it-all-best to kill the raccoon, which really just meant she was ruining any chance of my dad getting a clean shot.

Oh - and I forgot to mention that he only had one bullet.

And also - the flashlight was going dim because they've been using them constantly.

And yes - that flashlight was my Mag light that I still haven't gotten back after the Abby-Under-the-Road Incident.

One more thing - the person holding the Mag light was my mom, who kept having to scream and run the other way when the raccoon charged her.

It was a glorious, badly-lit circus.

To add to the fun, my parents' St. Bernard (appropriately named Boo, because he's scared of everything) would occasionally stick his head in whatever room the entire escapade had moved to, howl mournfully, and then back out because he didn't feel equal to the situation. Dad says it's just not in his nature to hurt things, and that's a good thing.

My dad is a really big, really nice guy (pretty much just like Boo). He gave the raccoon every chance to make an escape, but once it did find its way back to the screen door it refused to let go of a bag of bread (no, I'm not kidding) that wouldn't squeeze through the crack. So it was time to make use of the one bullet, and unfortunately the raccoon met its bitter end in the bathroom.

Mom says that's OK, because she was tired of the Harvest Gold colored tub anyway.

You Just Can't Make This Shit Up

My life really is a never ending stream of ridiculousness. Last night an All-Family-Distress-Call went out when my mom's Scottish Terrier got herself stuck under the driveway.

Ahem, yes - under the driveway. For those of you who are unaware of what a culvert is, you might want to click here. For everyone else, I'll just keep going.

For those of you who don't know, this is a Scottish Terrier.

For those of you who don't know, this is a Scottish Terrier.

My sister and I are aware of the minor miracle that made us able to pass through our German mother's care without becoming morbidly obese. We're not sure how we escaped the fate of every single family pet, but I think it was being athletic and also the fact that it was the 80s and most of us wore spandex whenever possible.

In any case, Abby (named after Aberdeen) is the most recent in a long line of Scottish Terriers. As a breed, they are incredibly intelligent and ferocious little shits. Individual results may vary.

Yesterday Abby got it into her head to dive into a culvert and investigate tight spaces that her very large arse had no hope of fitting into.

Or back out of.

And so, Abby was in fact, stuck under the driveway.

Individual results may vary

I got the call around 9 PM because I'm the owner of a very nice Mag lite and my mother had managed to turn my dad's on at some point during the afternoon and never ever turn it back off. So I drove over to my parent's house to find the neighbor, my brother-in-law, my cousin, and my dad all standing in a hole up to their waists and pounding on the drainpipe to see if the dog was in that particular pipe or the next one.

For those of you who don't know, this is a backhoe.

For those of you who don't know, this is a backhoe.

Note - it's very difficult to see a black dog inside a pitch-black pipe after 9 PM.

Abby wasn't in that pipe, so the next element came into effect - the backhoe. Yep. We dug up the driveway, cut the phone line and continued beating on the pipe in the hopes that one very fat Scottish Terrier would get up the gumption to push herself on out. But she didn't, so the backhoe was implemented into Plan C, which involved pulling the entire culvert pipe up and getting it vertical so that her fat butt just fell out one end.

And she then proceeded to go up to the front porch and beg for a treat.

She got it.