Night of the Coonbell

Night of the Coonbell

If there were a competition for dogs finding dead animals and bringing them up to the porch, my dog would win. Release the hound and a half-eaten raccoon will be found and enthusiastically delivered within 6 minutes (or the road kill is free).

Transporting an 18-lb., frozen, raccoon carcass with a plastic snow shovel is no easy task. Last winter, I had the opportunity to experience this wonder firsthand.  Approximately 6-7 minutes after letting my golden retriever free to stretch his legs and attend to business, I opened the door to a big, furry horror. This was not the kind of business I had intended him to complete. My eyes immediately focused on the teeth and grotesque whiskers of a dead beast. I looked at my dog, and he smiled. While living, the raccoon probably weighed 22 lbs., but it had lost its middle since its expiration date. Now, it was only head, shoulders, knees, toes and ringed tail.

The dog gleefully wagged his tail and three curious farm cats circled. I knew I couldn't just leave the dead thing there, two feet from the front door---what a distasteful welcome mat! The half-eaten corpse certainly did not align with my Anne of Green Gables aesthetic. So, I pushed the door open, took one hesitant step out and then abruptly jumped back in---I needed to give myself a pep talk. After repeating “you can do this” to myself about ten times, I crept out onto the porch and resolved to keep my eyes up.  I thought it would all be fine if I just didn’t look down. Like a Looney Tunes character who had been flung into a lion cage, I skirted around the edge of the porch staying as far away from the dead body as possible. After passing the crime scene, I accelerated from a careful walk to a get-me-the-hell-away-from-here jog, venturing into the night to find the Suncast steel core shovel my boyfriend gave me last Christmas. (He gifted me that along with a cheaply made garbage can and an endless list of fitness models I could friend on Facebook. It didn't work out.)

Luckily, in the old hog shed turned upcycled chicken coop, there was just enough moonlight for me to spot the shovel glimmer. As I grabbed the handle, the shovel scraped the cement floor and a chorus of odd, guttural displeased clucks creaked out from the darkness. Chickens don’t like it when their dreams are interrupted. The low-toned clucker moans made the dark shed very spooky. Then, of course, I started imagining a masked Michael Myers type stepping out from behind a wall, so I didn’t waste any time dragging that shovel out of there. 

Shovel in hand, I awkwardly charged back across the snow-covered yard, my semi-determined gait repeatedly thrown off balance whenever my foot broke through the hard-crusted snow. Approaching the house and bemoaning my choice to put on sneakers instead of boots, I breathed heavily and noticed a white spindle had been dislodged from the porch railing. Allowing my misery distract me from the unpleasant task at hand, I performed my best grumpy old man impersonation, cursing and grumbling about wet socks and sloppy carpentry as I climbed the porch steps, but then I looked down---because I had to.

Due to the below-zero temps, the raccoon was frozen solid and resembled a kind of varmint dumbbell of matted fur and frozen blood, bone, guts, and tissue (remember, he lost his middle). I closed my eyes, took a deep breath of frozen air, coughed, and then focused my determination on ridding the porch of the atrocity. Looking down again, I carefully positioned the shovel and tried to slide it under the coon cadaver. I soon realized that a dumbbell form isn't easily scooped. The ergonomic digger was not doing the trick, but I guess it wasn't really designed for dead varmit removal. Unwilling to admit defeat, I pressed onward. Pushing and wiggling the shovel under the heavy body, I gagged and vacillated between courage and terror, repeating inner dialogues like Toughen up! You live on a farm--you should be able handle this! and It’s not going to come alive. IT HAS NO ABDOMEN! Apparently, for some reason, I think all dead animals have a kind of Pet Cemetery power and can spontaneously reanimate. In that moment, I felt more pre-teen girl than tough farm woman.

Fighting back raccoon-resurrection images, I continued to hone my shovel dexterity when I noticed that my 6-yr-old son was standing in the doorway watching the deed with his eyebrows raised. His blond hair and bulky, red, fleece robe backlit by cozy kitchen light were uncanny contrasts to the carrion nightmare on the dim porch. I kept trying to scoot the coon dumbbell onto the shovel and it kept slip sliding away. The cats continued to circle and mew, reminding me of the movie Sleepwalkers, a ‘90s horror flick that ends with (spoiler alert) an army of cats  defeating a couple of supernatural beasts. Why couldn’t my cats provide a little assistance? Perhaps they could pounce on the dead coon and make it burst into flames (that’s what the movie cats did). I could easily sweep a pile of ashes away. But no, these cats sauntered around with their tails high and only provided an eerie mewing soundtrack to my gawky dead body removal. I tried to refocus, but when I pushed the shovel, one of the raccoon’s little baby-like hands waved at me, and I gagged---again.

The next time I looked up at the door, I saw my sweet little boy precariously holding two coffee creamer containers and a carton of milk. While I desperately attempted to load the coonbell onto the snow shovel, he juggled the items and yelled “I need help getting the chocolate milk!” Immediately, rapid-fire, anxiety-fueled thoughts zipped: He can’t have chocolate milk--it’s after eight o'clock (the coon wobbled); oh God, what if he drops all that--then I’ll have to mop up puddles of Fat-Free Hazelnut and Almond Breeze after I move this stupid coon” (the back end of the raccoon dangled over the shovel edge; its ribcage caught—I repositioned my grip); we have to make 8:30 lights out time; I’m sure there’ll be an epic asking-for-a-snack-after-brushed-teeth battle, and we have to read that library book about the magic tree...” At this point, I lost all coonbell-balancing concentration. The dog whined, and I yelled “You’re SO naughty! I’ve had it with you!” He put his head down and flashed his best pouty eyes. My little boy stared with wide saucer-like eyes. The creamers shook. And that’s when the furry, frozen-gut-exposed critter completely slid off the shovel, taking a whiskered nose dive and thudding end-over-end down the cement steps, finally balancing against my Christmas-garland-wrapped stair rail and corrupting a clip-on poinsettia flower. I shuddered, stepped down, and kicked the masked bandit onto the sidewalk. I no longer feared the gutless beast; I was actually angry at the dead thing.

Even though my adrenaline level had spiked, I decided that I wasn’t going to maneuver the body anymore. It was past 8:00 pm on a Midwestern winter night, and the designated dead animal pile, aka the dog’s “collection,” was all the way across the farm. So I turned away and added “coonbell removal” to my morning list, somewhere between making a Wow Butter sandwich for my son’s school lunch and drying my hair. I balanced the shovel against the railing, sneered at the smiling hound once more and went in to get the boy his chocolate milk. After witnessing this episode, he deserved it. 

My dog is a small-animal serial killer. Well, I don’t think he’s really driven by bloodlust and, to be fair, he’s seldom committed actual murder. He just loves to retrieve things—dead things. Maybe he’s better described as a kind of Dr. Frankenstein because he does seem to prefer collecting the deceased and their miscellaneous parts. To date, I've removed a calf leg, multiple mice, a deer leg, a deer head, a deer torso (one section every morning in 3-day succession), a dead cat (no, not a family cat--an outsider, a drifter), chickens, turkeys, other assorted birds, and various undetermined critter parts. Hunting and calving seasons exponentially increase the possibilities for extraordinary dropped-at-the-door gifts. He has killed fowl. But, in his defense, he was bred to be a “birddog.” I don’t know, maybe he’s a canine Ed Gein. The day I open the door and see him sporting a turkey-skin mask and feather hat, I’ll have to consider drastic reprogramming options. I have tried some behavioral modification, but I haven’t been able to get the morbid collecting obsession out of his system. I wish he would go back to the days of innocence, when he would only bring me pairs of the neighbors’ shoes, welcome mats (the appropriate kind) or bags of bread to the porch. But no, he grew up to be a retriever of death, and I’m forced to be his “cleaner” and question my level of sophistication and my place in life on long winter evenings such as the one previously mentioned.

Interestingly, even after the coonbell struggle, I’ve developed a strange sort of anticipation for what I might open the door to next. Is it possible that I’m actually excited to see what vile gift will be delivered? Do I like to wonder what gore will be the next to contrast my heather-grey floorboards? Has country solitude conjured a perverted desire for this retriever-delivered nuance? Anne of Green Gables would be appalled at how I entertain all the ways my white-spindled space could become the setting for a Rob Zombie Wind in the Willows adaptation. 

I’m certainly not saying I “enjoy” it, and I shudder thinking about any animal meeting its end, but perhaps what I might value is the way the disgust punctures any chance at perfection—being forced to interact with the death mess violently interrupts my simple-life-on-the-farm fantasy. All the little bodies reveal that the idealistic vision of a quaint, peaceful, wholesome farm life is a mirage; they reiterate nature’s chaos because they are unpleasant, visceral---real. And that realness makes the little kid, mud handprints all over the white railing more than okay. The dog’s gifts remind me that there will always be crooked spindles, layers of dust, wind-chipped paint, cricket-infested laundry rooms, dead kitties, blight, drought, floods, blizzards, and loneliness. I don’t have to work so hard for the dream because the dream is actually this---blood, guts, mud and all. Perfectly precise landscaping, chicken tending, garden planting, and child rearing does not guarantee a gut-free front porch. The dog’s treasures make me think this, and I breathe. Yes, that must be why I managed a partial smile mid gag when I discovered a colorful inside-out rat burger on the third step yesterday. (I’ll blame that one on the cats.)

Blog Proper

My maiden blog post was rambling mania; I called it poetry. This time I will attempt paragraphs.

This morning began with another harsh, dream exodus. In my own lovely REM land, I was attempting to capture the perfect photograph. In my dream, it was an autumn day and golden leaf piles covered the ground surrounding an idyllic lake. The water was mirror smooth and reflected the remaining fire-red and burnt-orange leaves of the trees. From the shore, I noticed a small row boat floating into my field of vision, and, of course, the boat was filled with chocolate lab puppies. Although they were confined to the boat, they frolicked like they just popped out of a Hallmark movie. In the middle of the puppy pile was a towheaded boy, laughing and loving the puppy love. The boat was drifting slowly across the lake; I only had a certain amount of time to capture the scene of perfection. With happy anticipation, I raised the camera, centered the bliss image and “click,” nothing. “Click, click, click!” ---nothing, nothing, nothing. I looked at the camera--a switch was bent. I tried to adjust it. I pushed and yanked and fought the switch. The boat was floating past. The puppies were licking the boy’s face; his head was tilted just so in the autumn sun. His smile was like no other smile ever smiled. “Click, click, click!” The camera continued to fail. I was failing. I started to hold my breath; I started to panic. I couldn't let this moment go. I couldn't fail to capture the perfect perfection of it all. I continued to fight the camera, the boat continued to drift by, my breath held, and then, suddenly, it was all gone. “Mom, get up. Get up, Mom!” I exhaled loudly, like I had just resurfaced from a dive in the deep end of puppy-boat lake. The puppies, the lake, the leaves, the boy abruptly faded away. Another boy (maybe the same one) tugged on my blankets and demanded a Netflix show, a Pop tart, and assistance with Lego construction (in that order).  My breathing leveled as my feet found the cold, wood floor. I felt a little twinge; I mourned the puppy boat.

Perhaps this photography-themed figment developed because this has been a week of capturing moments. Pictures are important this time of year: the children’s music program time of year. After my son’s 1^st grade music program, the children were forced to maintain their positions on wobbly risers so the audience members could sufficiently capture the moment. Phone cameras were held high in the air, people were weaving, bending, ducking and contorting themselves through the crowd to get to the best picture-taking spots. As I watched the zombie-like press towards the stage, I was reminded of the time I made it to the front of the crowd during an Aerosmith concert. When I finally wiggled my way up to the middle of the ever-shifting-fan pit, I was nearly sucked under when a hulk-like security fellow picked me up by the seat of my pants and sent me on my merry way back to the very back of the arena. Of course, the music-program crowd wasn't quite as intense. But, I did detect a bit of panic in the air--the panic of “I need to get the perfect picture. I must capture this moment in time---the moment when my child sang an innocent song through a mouth that still contained baby teeth—the moment when he was still six years old.” 

While the parents and grandparents tried to ease that panic with a wild flicker of flashes, the children fidgeted and smiled their baby-teeth smiles. Static electricity caused their perfect coifs to rise and wave. The little stars of the show began elbowing each other and expressions lost the smiles and changed into goofy looks and scowls. And then, like one final, flash-powder burst, it was all over. Everyone grabbed the coats, grabbed the kids and flooded out into the night; the race was on to find cars, buckle car seats, and get out of the parking lot as quickly as possible.  That designated moment to capture was gone.

A few days later, I found myself trying to seize the moments of my son’s seventh birthday party. On a mildly wintry Saturday afternoon, he and twelve of his friends sported wildly in a gym for two hours. They didn't stop running, jumping, throwing, rolling, crying, yelling, and feeling the thrills of victory and the agonies of defeat-- the entire time. The gym morphed into a pinball machine with twelve balls bouncing around it. In the middle of it all, stood my sixty-six-year-old father. He had a small, orange plastic whistle tied with grey yarn around his neck. Unfortunately, the whistle sound didn't convey much authority; it sounded more like a chicken sneeze. The boys played like they were in a championship showdown while Dad tried to ref, blow the chicken sneezer, and make the tough calls. It was a sight. I clicked, clicked away with the camera. Dad blew his party-favor whistle, indicated first downs, called dead balls, and declared timeouts for tears and intense play debates. The boys, like pinballs (or roller derby participants), collided and zipped around him, and I tried to capture it all. When I reviewed the photos, I found that most of them were blurred because the shutter wasn't set for such action and speed. But, I managed to get a few of the game, the cupcake and Gatorade stained faces, and the gentle glance and smile of the ref. I wanted to keep those moments forever--for my son, for my dad, and for myself.

Beyond the music program and the birthday party photos, the washing machine and turkey images (see previous blog post) still lingered. And, well, I did it; I tweeted a picture of a washing machine to Shia LaBeouf’s Twitter page, and I photographed the turkeys in the glow of headlights. And, by doing so, I deduced that I may be experiencing some kind of mid-life crisis.

When considering the Twitter post, I thought, “Why not? Just do it. What the hell--it’s kind of funny.” But after I clicked “send” and the picture of the Maytag top-loader zipped off to be reviewed by Shia’s page police, I felt oddly guilty, like the act was offensive. I mean, sure, I didn't whip him or anything but isn't the weirdness of posting a picture of a washing machine somehow assaultive? I included the caption: “Because art is both purging and cleansing and sometimes random and sometimes not” and hoped Shia would understand. (Yes, insert sarcastic tone.) I thought that he might determine the washing machine a symbol of his artistic revolution. But, he hasn't replied to the Tweet, so who knows. I hope it wasn't too much (more sarcasm). We’ll see, maybe it will end up on the Today show or something.

The turkey shots, however, were slightly more satisfying. I think my old, “dumb” phone captured the turkey glow by Envoy lights quite well. The eye of the bird kind of reminds me of the eye of Peter Benchley’s beast or maybe some other leviathan. Okay, maybe that’s going too far, but the quote “it’s got eyes like a doll’s eyes” did come to mind. The good news is that, that particular bird has still got its head---he’s photogenic.  

As I think of all the pictures from puppy-boat dream and music program to Maytag and turkey-eye glow, I find myself pondering the fragility of life. Yeah, I ended up there. I suppose this dip into mortality negotiation corresponds with my recent birthday and all the events of late. It seems, that we all reach a point, depending on experience and age, when we really sense the vulnerability of it all. It’s not something of the future. It’s not something to be imagined. It, a kind of visceral acknowledgment, is actually felt in every cell. A veil is lifted and the heavy expectation of time passing and loss becomes painfully clear. Moments can’t be captured. They pass. Things end. We end. The snapshots are just little pseudo-sensory time machines that let us repeat a twinge of what actually was. So we wiggle and bend through the crowd, we frantically adjust the shutter lens, we post Maytags to Twitter, and we try to hold on. Maybe the trick is to hold onto the seconds rather than the “puppy-boat” moments—to hold onto the tug of the blanket, the little boy whine, the cold wood floor underfoot, the Strawberry Shortcake smell of the Pop tart, and the confounding frustration of the missing Lego. Perhaps the way to get beyond the fear or the desire to capture it all is to hold on to each second for just that second.

(Or, maybe we should all just post pictures of Christopher Walken’s treasure chest to Kim K’s Twitter page.)

An Early Morning Birthday Present to Myself

I was going to start this blog project last August. My first post was going to be one entitled "Adventures in Summering: 'Mom, I Pooped in Nature,'" but, as they do, the other things of life got in the way, and I never finished it; now, it's November 30th. So, this morning I wrote a little diddy thingy, and as a birthday present to myself, I'm using it as my maiden blog post. Here goes nothing--

Little Frilly Red Birthday Dress of My Imagination

Purging and cleansing--the satisfaction of erupting ideas and emotion and making them tangible through artistic expression. I don’t think I can get the same thing from carving miniature gourds. I want artistic aggression. I want to throw gallons of neon paint on the barn or to burn something (not the barn).

I just realized I didn't put the chickens in---there may be carnage. Blood and feathers everywhere. Why not?  It is my 38^th birthday. 

As I woke this morning, the words “Just ignore it; go back to sleep” kept repeating in my head. I didn't connect it to anything until now. Every time that little voice played, I would switch sides and reattempt sleep--until I forgot about it and got up. Yesterday, I dreamt that I posted a picture of a washing machine on Shia Labeouf’s Twitter page. I guess that’s where the cleansing and purging idea originated. I also imagined photographing turkey heads in the glow of headlights (I often park by the coop when I come home after dark and have to knock the turkey rafter off the rafters and secure the gang for the night.) I got a strange look from one of the birds the other night; the eye, the open beak, the pink and purple wrinkles stuck with me. I wonder if that’s the one that lost its head.

“Mom, what time is Thanksgiving?! What time is your birthday?!” (repeat 10 times).

I listened to automatic weapon fire while I hung Christmas lights and old stinky garland on the house yesterday. All the décor is brittle and not quite right anymore. In the distance, hunters or kids or big-kid adults found joy in playing war; I swear I heard canon fire each time the plastic garland broke apart in my hands. I thought of Bambi dodging bullets like Neo and then I realized the red ribbon and giant fake poinsettia flowers did momentarily detract my attention from the odd smells, the war, and the mud on the white spindles.

After listening to an NPR interview, all I want to do is read PD James detective novels. 

The sound of little hands digging through a TMNT pencil bag full of tiny Legos. 

This really has no beginning, no arch, no end, and I like it; it’s defiance. My son wants me to play Ninjago now. Erupting art with interruption is a challenge---satisfaction is segmented and never quite whole.

“Mom! Guess how many guys I have?!” “7” “Er, keep guessing!” “Mom! Guess how many guys I have?!” “10” “Er, keep guessing!” 

I guess this does have an end. I must work on my defiance.