Yesterday was eventful.
What was supposed to be a relaxing day off from work – – piddling time away on the computer, reading, doing a little running – – was hijacked by my furry-purry-fat-lover-of-a-cat who evidently has a certain je ne sais pas with regards to garden prowess.
So there I am, hanging out upstairs, barefoot, mentally gearing up for a workout when my cat joins me. I don’t think much of it at first but before long he makes a declarative meow to command my attention. It is with a lazy, lingering sense of calm that I slowly acknowledge the very real presence of a very real snake right.there.on.the.floor.
Proceed to freakout. Manic texts to Luke. And a lot of *fucks* flying out of my mouth in between shrill terror-filled screams that do little besides elicit concern and confusion from my furry predator of a sidekick.
After way too much time had passed, my heart beating at capacity, I managed to contain the situation.
And with no time at all was OUT of the house for the rest of the evening, killing time before Luke was available for dinner, and could then proceed to deal with our situation. I’ll admit, I felt real adult in deciding to let the snake live. But not before stipulating that it needed to be released no less than 2 miles from our home.
Luke’s basically the greatest husband ever.
Not only did he capture the beast, he drove it out of our neighborhood and released it into the wild. He’s a keeper.