At one point in my twenties, I lived in a cabin on the side of a mountain in Estes Park. At first it was just me. Then I pulled back the shower curtain early one morning to find a mouse with its head jammed in the bathtub drain. (I called my homo friend over to remove it. It was early. Really early. He clearly loves me.) Then it was just me and my new cat Morris- a cold blooded killer who eradicated the mice and slept on my head.
Me and my cat. Quiet. Peaceful. Bliss. Give me a moment....
Morris was a wonderful orange kitty. He unfortunately passed away last fall. I miss him hard. And now I will liken him to a human, because that is what I do with all animals. If he were a man he would have worn black turtlenecks, drank fine wine and discussed things like opera and literature. He would also have been gay (except for his weird obsession with me, but really, can you blame him?). I called him two pet names "Momo Baby KissKiss" and "Momo the Homo". Either way, he was a total Mo.
My little cabin was painted cornflower blue. It had a skylight over the bed and a big deck with flower boxes that I filled with pansies and geraniums. It also had a little back door that led to a tiny patio where I kept my garbage can. The can was bungee-corded to the wall and the lid was secured with more bungee-cords.
There was a ruckus one night and my attack cat Morris bolted over to the door to vanquish the intruder. I followed with my broom (no, I didn't ride it over there, thanks for wondering). The intruder was a raccoon. Raccoons are cute right?
This raccoon was a hostile, snarling, belligerent bastard. We had a stand off. He wanted to kill me and eat my eyeballs. I may have thrown my tea kettle at him. He finally left, hissing and spitting like a rabid dragon the entire time as he retreated up the mountain.
A week goes by. My Mo friend, the one that yanked the dead mouse from my shower drain, came to visit from out of town and stayed the night. He is one of my best friends to this day. Let's call my friend Ronald for all intents and purposes; short for Ronald McDonald. Anyhoo, Ronald and I were startled awake in the wee hours of the morning by the sound of my trash can rattling. My gay attack cat sprinted around the corner to the back door and I muttered "Damn raccoons!" and ran after Morris. A groggy Ronald followed me. I grabbed a spatula on my way through the kitchen and was prepared to (make some eggs?) chuck the thing at the masked rodent. Morris was poised on the door frame- ready to leap, and I had thrown open the back door and had my hand on the screen, when I felt Ronald's hand on my shoulder.
I said "What?"
He calmly said "Bear."
I said "Huh?"
Then I looked up at the pesky invader of my trash can, who was looking at me through the flimsy screen door. We were approximately 17.25 inches away from each other. It was not a raccoon. It was a bear. A BEAR.
No, I did not shit my pants.
It seemed to be a smallish bear. Not really a baby, but more of a teenager. But everyone knows that where ever there is a young bear, there is a mammoth, protective and hungry mama bear near by. Not to mention Junior also had all the working parts to shred my flesh.
I slowly backed away and closed my almost equally as flimsy back door. Ronald and I stood there with our mouths gaping open and we watched though the window as the bear try so hard to get rid of that bungee cord. The bungee cord held and Jr. Bear gave up and eventually ambled back up the mountain.
All the while, Morris, my attack cat, was prepared to shank him with a shard of glass that he had busted off of one of his wine bottles.
|Rest in peace baby kitty. xxoo|
So as you can see, two homosexuals saved me from a bear attack, which is why they are invaluable to my existence on the planet. That.... and their impeccable taste and flawless style, naturally.