By Ryn Garguilnski: QCS Managing Editor
The recent rainstorm not only flooded our yard, our goat pen and part of my car since someone left the passenger window open, but turned our home into a Noah’s Ark of sorts.
That is, if you’ll accept Noah as a bald-headed, tattooed man in the form of my boyfriend. Instead of Noah’s usual garb of some wrap-around brown thing, this Noah had on a blue hooded rain poncho and a pair of scuffed up work boots.
And instead of calling the animals politely two by two with plenty of time to spare before the deluge (Noah may have even sent out invitations), my boyfriend didn’t get to the savior part until it was almost too late.
As hail pelted the rooftop and rain slid down the panes, we watched water sluice gleeful into our yard, overflowing from the nearby retention pond. We laughed when we saw several logs float merrily away, guffawed when part of the garbage we’ve been meaning to pick up made its way down East Rankin, but began to get itchy when the windows on the goat pen became barely visible.
That’s when we sprang into action. Well, that’s when my boyfriend sprang into action and I lit a cigarette, grabbed a flashlight and watched him trudge through the hip-deep dredge from a bedroom window.
Since we had already traded back the 100-pound escaping goat for one of her kids, my boyfriend only had two babies – Slim and Shady – to retrieve from the rollicking waters.
He came slogging back with a goat beneath each arm – the glorious bald-headed savior! – except you could not see the baldness under the dark blue poncho hood.
We had already fashioned the laundry room into a temporary goat holding cell, firmly shutting one door and securing the other doorway with a second-hand arm chair.
The goats got deposited in the room, where they slid sideways, soaking wet, while I tried to dry them with a battered towel and the dog tried to attack them. When I yelled at the dog my boyfriend yelled at me so I went to finish my cigarette in the bedroom. Shady eventually let me dry her, Slim stayed far in the corner trying to eat the snake-like dryer hose and they both eventually happily adapted for the night, peeing freely on the laundry room floor.
My boyfriend said when he found them in the goat shed, Shady was up to her neck in flood waters while Slim, caring brother that he is, stood on her back, waiting patiently for her to become a corpse so he could float finely away on a gruesome, makeshift raft.
A night with braying, peeing goats penned in the laundry room bucking against the second-hand armchair made me realize one of two things – 1) we are either severe animal lovers or 2) we’re idiots.
Since it has taken years of therapy and positive thinking mantras to get over the latter, I’ll say we love animals. But not necessarily the second batch of beasties who came flooding in from the flood.
We now have mice.
Since the dog was so adamant about attacking our goats, we figured he’d be a natural at nipping at the mouse infestation. Besides, he’s a Jack Russell terrier that my boyfriend is specifically bred to eat rodents.
Alas, the dog sits by the refrigerator and whines while mice get fat from the grits bowl I left in the sink. OK, I’ll give Scratch some credit – he did point out some of their favorite hiding places, like the bookcase in my office or the pillows in my meditation room – but he went no further to catch them and he almost let one loose that was on a glue trap.
Thus we seek one more animal to add to our mix on the ark – we are hoping to rent a cat.