Lil of This, Lil of That

"Lost! lost lost lost!"
"Lost what?"
"I've lost my marbles."
--Toodles and Peter in "Hook"

Thank you, Toodles, for taking the words right out of my mouth.
Good gee and golly.

McDuck

 McDuck . . . well, he's gone to a better place.
No, he's not dead. At least, not that I know of. He was alive and kicking--er, pooping--most adamantly last I saw him.

You see, we found that McDuck spent his time huddled up next to his reflection on any shiny surface, he talked to it, snuggled with it, went into a panic when he couldn't find "Mirror Friend." As cute as he was, it was SAD to see anything that lonely, I mean, he seemed to like me, would follow me on the rare occasion, would shriek protest if I was out of his sight, and if I held him on my lap or on my shoulder (his favorite was to get up as high as he could or huddle under my chin), he seemed happy, but not entirely relaxed. Not like when he was with Mirror Friend. So we decided that he needed real ducks and something bigger than a bathtub and cardboard box in his life.

Oh, and a place where tiger-wanna-be housecats weren't stalking his every move.

And, quite honestly, we needed less poop in our lives. Ducks, you must understand, seem to excrete their body weight in feces every day. And they don't care where they do their dirty duty . . . in fact, they'll walk in it, sit in it . . . eat it.
I'm not even kidding.
I went to clean out McDuck's box, picked him up, and found his little bill ENCRUSTED in his own dung.
Ew.
And then when they take a drink, ducks shake their little faces flinging whatever is in or on their bills EVERYWHERE. Do you really want to know the places I found poop?
No, you do not.

So we gave him to a wildlife rehabilitator. Because wild animals need to go to rehab for an addiction to domestication.

At least, that's how I see it.      

The Cottage

Oh slowly but surely. Chris and I unpacked most if not all of our books two nights ago. Oh the laughs, oh the joys. I was giddy.
It's almost embarrassing.

I've discovered that we have the most eclectic collection: books on cats, hobbits, mythology, anthropology, biology, theology, Creole proverbs, kids books, the works. It's all there. We even have a book on how to battle constipation . . . only because it has the word "Constipation" in the title, and let's face it, that's funny.

The bugs . . . aren't as bad as the recent renter made them seem. I mean they are definitely outside. In the woods. Where they belong. A couple have scuttled inside, only to be met by my fearsome battle cry, "DIE!!! VERMIN!!! DIE!!!!!"
I'm sure I strike terror into the heart-ish organs-ish things of every arachnid and insect in the vicinity.

And, of course, there's always my fearless night in shining armor to squash any many-legged foe.
Especially that one night.
Oh that One. Night.

Carl

Remember when I told you about the spider godfather whose web Chris destroyed?
 He sent one of his cronies to seek true revenge. Oh, and he found it.

Most people would say it was an unfortunate coincidence, where a creature, seeking warmth, ran into a human who was merciless with misunderstanding.
Bah-LONEY.

Here's how it really went down:

Godfather Spider: Carl [because that was it's name, ok?] I gave you a favor once, helped you out, yes? Now, I'm gonna ask you to repay that favor, show your loyalty to your Don. Can you do that for me, Carl?
Carl: Yes, Don Spider.
Godfather: Good, very good. Make me proud, Carl.
And he sent off Carl to do his dirty work, to see his ultimate revenge on the one who caused the destruction of such beautiful piece of web architecture.

So Carl, big, brown, spindly UGLY Carl, chose his stake-out, a beautiful crocheted quilt in the top shelf of a closet, and he WAITED. Crouched, comfy, all eight eyes peeled for that perfect moment. Then, it happened.  Someone moved the quilt, took it down, Carl huddled inside, and brought it to the couch.

I was on the couch, snuggled up, watching some BBC show, and Chris was being chivalrous, trying to keep me warm.

But, in this effort, he was delivering me to my enemy.

You see, a few moments after snuggling under my grandmother's quilt, I felt a tickling on my chest. Hm, odd. I look down, and there is Carl.
 Right. There.
In my face, staring at me so calming and coolly. "Hello, Sweetie," he seemed to say, "Meet your doom."

So I screamed . . . well, bellowed. I can't really scream--it's too high-pitched, my natural instincts go against it, despite being a soprano. So, I yell at Carl, impervi
I swipe, scratch, scurry.
Carl moves to my arm.
Swipe, scratch, scurry, AGAIN.
He falls onto the couch cushion and just sits there. So I bellow at him, "AAAAAAAAAH!!!!"
No fear, none.
In the background, I hear Chris say to the phone, "Hang on, I think I need to kill something."
"CHRISTOPHER!!! I WAS MOLESTED BY AN ARACHNID!!! KILL IT!!!!!"

And so Carl the Spider Assassin met his doom
Haha, Carl. Ha. Ha.