Open Season

November is an important month, here in Alberta. November means you are legally allowed to wander around aimlessly with a loaded weapon and take shots at anything that moves. It is open season on Bambi.

That's right, it's hunting season around these parts.

As a city-dweller, I never gave hunting season much thought. Or any thought, for that matter. But living out in the sticks, hunting has taken a whole new meaning.

We wear a lot of orange during this month.

Because you never know when some deranged, great white hunter is going to mistake you, your kids, or your dog for his trophy kill. After all, it must be hard to see clearly through that tiny little scope when your eyes are blood shot and bleary from all the strong coffee one must consume to stay warm.

Don't laugh. My mother-in-law's house has the bullet holes to prove it. Some hunters really can't hit the broad side of a barn. But can manage to miss a bull moose standing four feet in front of them, and instead take out the nearest farm house's window.

Driving down the dirt road, with open fields on either side, is nerve wracking during this particular month, with the mental image of a bullet hole in Grandma's hallway running through your mind. Didn't Dick Cheney shoot a lawyer in the ass when he mistook his backside for a bird? (I know, I know, it wasn't really his backside, it was the man's chest and face, but it's harder to make a joke about that...)

My point is, accidents happen.

The deer and the moose aren't the only things running for cover this month.

I empathise with poor old Bugs. I know how he feels.

Battle Weary

As a parent, I have had to get used to the idea that dishes will be broken, milk will be spilled and a variety of household items will just simply vanish. As a parent, I have been introduced (and since become good friends with ) the invisible gremlin known as Not Me.

It is always Not Me's fault at our house. Even when I catch poor Fric and Frac in the act of wrong doing, they still try to pin the blame on poor old Not Me. But now, as they are aging, and maturing, they have stopped tormenting sad little Not Me. You see, dear internet, they have found another fool to pin the blame on. Each other. Now they just simply respond. "Wasn't me, must have been Frac," and vice versa. And then they go to their private little command posts, go over the battle plans and tighten up their strategy. All in the efforts of winning this war I like to call :Operation Drive Mommy Mad.

I must admit, at times I've found it amusing. Others, maddening. And in the morning, when that beautiful yellow school bus, driven by my very own angel of mercy, stops at the bottom of my driveway and picks up my soldiers, I am relieved. And grateful. For I have survived yet another day, another battle. (Let them practice their skills of seemingly innocent sorcery on the school teachers. For at least they have been prepared for such battles. This mommy needs a break.)

Because I have a new battle to face. A war which must be won. No matter the cost.

Redneck Mommy versus Nixon. World's. Greatest. Dog. Ever.

And I will sadly report that Nixon has better battle plans than I was prepared for. He just bends his puppy ear back and looks at me with his puppy eyes, and I'm lost.

It doesn't matter that he was raping my oldest, most precious teddy bear from my childhood. Mr. Pink Elephant. It doesn't matter that he discovered the joys of the garbage can. What's a little piddle between friends? Right, dear internet?

Until I walked into this scene. Charles was terrorized, raped and then eviscerated. My Charles, sweet Charles, the first teddy my darling Boo ever won for me at a carnival.

It's not right dear internet. I will avenge my dear Charles. Bring it on Nixon. I'm not scared of you. Fric and Frac have a battle hardened mommy.

Just keep your damn ears pointed up, and your tongue in your mouth. Then we will see whose the boss around here.

Casualties of War

I've had it up to my eyeballs with sibling rivalry and I don't know what to do. No, no, dear internet, not Fric and Frac. No, they love each other. I'm talking about my other children. You know, my dog and my cat. That's right, dear internet, I have a cat. I don't often speak of her, for reasons I will post in the future, but she exists. Her name is Fanny. Fanny dislikes Nixon. Nixon looooooves Fanny. See the problem here? Every time I let my beloved Nixon out to pee, my beloved Fanny beats the crap out of him.

Really, it was cute at first. Ever see a cat box? Fanny could win a championship belt, she does it so well. But now I worry that her claws are going to get one of Nixon's buggy out eyes and leave me with a one-eyed, slobbering mess. How gross is that image?

And to really make matters worse, Fanny has decided to dedicate herself to me. Every where I go, Fanny goes to. Ever try to dig potatoes with a cat winding around your legs? Good times.

And then there are the presents she leaves me. Yummy. This morning I found a dead bird (minus a head) waiting for me on the deck. Yesterday, she brought me a mole. Or vole. Something large and hairy and weasel like. Yuck. Worse yet was the time she eagerly dropped a dead baby rabbit onto my lap. Picture me screaming like a pansy and running away like a thoroughbred out of a gate.

I've tried to convince her I still love her. I bring her treats, I cuddle, I even refer to Nixon as "that Stupid dog" when she's around. (But really dear internet, he is the World's Greatest Dog. Ever.) But my words must be ringing false to her.

Because she is still leaving disembowelled mice all over my sidewalk. Picture me struggling to carry the infant carrier (stuffed with the fattest baby this family has ever seen), a knapsack my sister likes to call a diaper bag, a thermos bag carrying a day's worth of formula and baby mush, the bouncy seat that my devil boy nephew insists on sitting in, my keys, and a cup of coffee, all at once. Because I don't want to have to make two trips to the car. So, as I pack all of this up my sidewalk, I have a cat winding around my legs. And then I hear a crunch.

You betcha. I managed to step on a mouse head. A few steps later, I will slip. Because I managed to step on another mouse's entrails. I may or may not make it to my house intact. I will however, be bringing in several mice worth of DNA on the bottom of my shoe. Every damn time.

Getting to and from my house now entails a game of hopscotch. Complete with mouse parts.

It's always fun and games around here.

I'm beginning to get a rather scary reputation around my neighborhood. Kids who come over to play with my kids are now referring to our place as "the one with all dead animals."

My sister carries a small stick to push the carcasses aside, so as not to step on them.

Meanwhile, my beloved Fanny continues to preen and beat the living day lights out of Nixon.

And so, I suppose I will have to resign myself to telling visitors to watch where they step.

You never know what that crunch will be.