This is a (mostly) true story about a partridge with attitude, two thug moths out for a
joyride joyfly and a toad that tried to kill me. I know it is (mostly) true because I lived to tell the tale. I am lucky to have survived this weekend at our beloved cabin in the woods.
This (mostly) true story is also a long story so I would suggest you make yourself some popcorn,
a cuppa tea pour yourself a glass or two of wine before curling up in your favourite chair to read about my latest escapade.
I should also add that I have changed the names of the forest dwellers in this (mostly) true story in order to protect their real identities. It is an understood rule at our cabin in the woods that what happens in the bush stays in the bush unless you change the identities of those involved when retelling the story. It also helps protect me from any potential lawsuits filed by the forests dwellers for libel, pain and suffering or some other bullpoopie thingie like that. Their lawyer, Cedric C. Cougar, has a reputation for being the kind of pompous ass, throat-cut-ish brute of a lawyer that you don’t want to run up against. Once he smells blood, he won’t stop until there is nothing left of you.
Now, back to the (mostly) true story. It all started early Friday morning when Sauerkraut and I arrived at our beloved cabin in the woods. If you’ve followed this blog, then you know that our cabin in the woods is our favourite place to be. We quickly set about cleaning the cabin, unpacking our necessities and, before long, were settled in for a nice long weekend. We were ecstatic to be there.
By evening, however, I wasn’t feeling quite right. Supper wasn’t sitting all that well but I put it off to my eating our delicious steak dinner too quickly. By bedtime, my stomach was still feeling queasy but nothing that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix.
Or so I thought.
Lord thunderin’ jaysus, around 2:00 a.m., I was awakened by some raging intestinal cramping of epic proportions. Sporting only my nightgown, I
made my way ran to the outdoor facility, namely, the outhouse. It was at this time I began what I like to refer to as a clandestine relationship with the outhouse which, from hereon in, will be referred to
as Ozzy. (I decided that if I was going to be rendezvousing with an outhouse in the middle of the night, I might as well name it in order to make it sound more
While I certainly didn’t see this sort of relationship coming, once Ozzy got his grip on me there was no turning back. For the next twenty-four plus hours, I continued sneaking out to Ozzy’s and sharing my innermost secrets with him, secrets buried deep within my very
intestines being. It felt good to let it all go — things that had been building up for so long — painful, pressure-filled downright stinky things. I’m sure you can relate.
For my first rendezvous with Ozzy, I wasn’t prepared. It was in the middle of the night and I was wearing only a long sleeved night gown. I had no time to consider the unusually chilly temperatures of the June night and dress accordingly. I also didn’t have time to grab a flashlight larger than the one on my iPhone.
Ozzy was patient and proved to be a thoughtful
lover listener as I poured my inner most thoughts out to him. After twenty minutes of my butt heart-wrenching saga, I was nearly frozen to death. I made my way back to the cabin knowing that, after just one meeting, Ozzy would always be there for me, kind of like Imodium.
Sauerkraut, on the other hand, was oblivious to my clandestine affair. He had morphed into Fred Flintstone while I was away and was snoring the night away. It’s a miracle the blankets didn’t rise to the rafters as he exhaled and smother him as he inhaled. Yaba daba frickin’ doo.
I managed to get a couple of hours sleep before repeating my performance just before daybreak. This time, however, I was certainly better dressed for the occasion. I was also armed with a book and reading glasses in case I was there for a long time.
Despite my intestinal discomfort, it was a rather peaceful time of day, peaceful, that is, until Percy flippin’ Partridge began flapping his wings. Sounding much like a helicopter preparing for takeoff, I couldn’t quite determine if Percy was congratulating me on a job well done or if he was trying to warn the other forest dwellers that something nasty was going on at Ozzy’s. Maybe he was trying to warn them to run for ‘dem dere’ hills. This continued with each and every visit to Ozzy’s that morning. Percy, the big motherclucker that he was, was really getting on my nerves.
On at least one occasion, I yelled at Percy. “Shut the hell up! I don’t need your kind of attitude in my life. I’m dealing with enough
shit crap without taking it from you, too.”
Thankfully, my afternoon and early evening visits with Ozzy were at least uneventful. I was beginning to think that the worst was over and that I was turning the corner.
I should have known better. I think that motherclucker, Percy Partridge, flapped some sort of hex on me because at 2:15 a.m. I was back at it again. This time, however, I was better prepared with a fleece jacket, a paperback, reading glasses and a larger flash light.
Even though I had agreed to wake my Fred Flintstone doppelgänger if I needed to go out to the outhouse in the middle of the night again, I didn’t have the heart to. He hadn’t yet reached the full-on Fred Flintstone snore so I knew he was enjoying a nice peaceful sleep. There was no need for the two of us to be up as clearly there wasn’t anything he could do to help me anyway. What was he going to do, beat up
Ozzy the outhouse?
I settled in to Ozzy’s welcoming embrace (there’s nothing quite like a good layer of styrofoam insulation hugging your behind in the wee hours of the morning) and began reading my book, letting nature take its course, so to speak. It was then that I was assaulted by a pair of thugs, Martin and Marvin Moth. After a few choice words and with my arms thrashing about, it wasn’t long before I sent them packing, each begging, “please don’t tell Momma Moth about this. She’ll ground us for sure. We’re not supposed to be out this late. Please, please Miss Poopyhead, don’t tell our momma.” I relented and said that I would not tell but that I had better not see them at Ozzy’s Outhouse again. I may or may not have called them cheeky little arseholes on their way out the door.
After I calmed down, it was back to business for me. I resumed reading, a thriller, of course, by Jeffrey Deaver. I mean, what better genre than a murder mystery to read in the middle of the night, in the middle of the bush, when I’m all by myself and where no one could hear my murderous screams, least of all Fred Flintstone, and in an outhouse owned by a dude named Ozzy? Dum-dee-dum dum dum. La la la. Nature was working itself out nicely and the book was getting sooooooo good. “Just one more page,” I told myself, “just one more page and then I’ll go back inside”.
But it’s never just one more page, is it? Hell, no. I had to push my luck and turn to the next page. Plop! I felt something land on my thigh and I knew it wasn’t toilet paper. Plop, again. And I knew it wasn’t Martin or Marvin Moth because they had flown home several pages ago.
Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, what the hell was on my leg? One glimpse with the flashlight and I saw the meanest, brownest, most disrespectful baby toad that I have ever seen in my life and he’s sitting there like he owns the joint. Uh, uh, uh, I don’t think so, Timothy Toad, because this outhouse isn’t big enough for the two of us. One of us has got to go. And that one of us was me.
I sprang into action, flying out of Ozzy’s outhouse faster than a speeding bullet. The toad was airborne, my bookmark hit the dirt, the toilet paper was rolling right along with me but there was absolutely, positively no way I was going to be taken out by a murderous baby toad named Timothy. I may or may not have screamed, “You rotten son-of-a-toad” or “your mother wears army boots” or “I could have been a contender” or “A-D-R-I-A-N!” or some other stupid thing like that. When you’re running for your life, everything becomes a blur other than getting to safety so I don’t exactly remember what I screamed. Whatever it was, I am sure it was profanity laden.
I made it inside the cabin safe and sound. After I closed and locked the door (there was no way that son-of-a-toad was getting inside to finish me off), I leaned against the door trying to catch my breath. As I came to the realization of just how close I had come to losing my life, I thanked the high heavens for sparing me. Then, I shone the flashlight to the left and saw my beloved Fred Flintstone, snoring the night away, oblivious to the fact of just how close he had come to being widowed. Boy, did he get an earful over breakfast this morning.
So, there you have it. My (mostly) true story about how a forest dweller almost killed me and how I lived to tell the tale.
Ribbeting riveting, I know.
Oh, one more thing, I couldn’t find my reading glasses afterwards either. If you happen to see a partridge walking around the bush sporting a really cool pair of reading glasses, tell him that you know where he got them and that he’d better return them to his rightful owner or he could be facing a lawsuit of his own.
Murderous Baby Toad: 0
My something new: surviving my first murder attempt … on me, that is. It wasn’t me attempting to murder someone, although there were a couple of times when I felt like killing Fred for snoring. ‘It was Wilma Flintstone … in the cabin … with the pillow.’
Hey, have you ever faced down a murderous toad, put the run on a pair of thug moths or been applauded for a job well done by a partridge with attitude? Tell me your story. I can’t be the only one.