Liam used to make a habit of starting conversations with the phrase, “Houston We Have a Problem”. Typically, this announced some minor calamity, but could mean anything up to arterial spray, a pressure dressing, and the need for CareFlight! Needless to say, those words send me into instant flight or fight mode!
Pause for the un-funny backstory: A few years ago, I was thrown from a horse. The results of this spill included a cracked bone in my hip, a broken shoulder, assorted torn ligaments, two surgeries, and eighteen months off work. Today’s story takes place just after my second surgery.
I was gorked on pain medication, and I don’t do well on them. Drugs don’t make me funny or happy. They make me groggy and grumpy. At the time, I didn’t see this event as funny. Yet, since then, I’ve been torn between shaking my head, strangling my husband, and laughing aloud! End of Backstory.
Turquoise bathrobe in place, teacup in hand, and purple surgeons’ marker clarifying which shoulder had dangled from its socket, I was on the couch glaring into space. Suddenly, a beard and a cowboy hat, appeared before me. I frowned, focused, and frowned again. Liam moved his head back and forth until my eyes locked on target. Then, you guessed it, “Houston, we have a problem!”
Panic gripped me. My cheeks went hot. My chest went tight. Unaware of my sudden adrenaline jolt, Liam continued. “I was in the shop, and Ollie was freaking out. I went to see what was wrong. AND…there was something moving by the chop saw.” Even in my drunken/freaked state, I recognized this as weird. Ollie was a Tasmanian devil disguised as a barn cat! However, unless the ‘something moving’ was a bobcat, invading Mongol horde, or portal to the Realm of Doom, it wasn’t worth crawling out of my stupor.
Oblivious to my panic and the fact that it was swiftly being replaced with the urge to brain him, he continued. Liam even began to pace excitedly as he spoke, “I had my pistol, but I didn’t want to shoot a hole in the shop. So, I grabbed a shovel. I was trying not to startle whatever it was, so I snuck to the hay bales and looked.” Suddenly, I had the image of Elmer Fudd with a cowboy hat, a pistol, a shovel, and steel-toed boots trying to tip-toe quietly through our obstacle course of a shop. Does not compute…must be the drugs.
The nausea brought on by trying to track Liam’s pacing made me frown more fiercely. Not noticing, Liam continued, “I leaned forward enough to see…(pause for dramatic effect)…IT’S A SKUNK!!!” He peered at me for gasps of shock and distress. My thoughts were: Hmmm…No Mongol horde. No portal of Doom. Not even a bobcat. I went back to glaring. Liam repeated, “It’s a skunk!” (I stared.) “In the shop!” (I blinked.) “There’s a skunk in the shop!” (I raised an eyebrow…sarcastically.) Liam’s eyes narrowed.
Hmmm…Maybe I’ve pushed this a bit too far and should pretend to be interested. (Seriously, drugs are not my friends.) I cleared my throat, concentrated, and managed a vaguely surprised and slightly slurred, “Oooohmihgosh!” Liam studied me through those narrowed eyes. Deciding I was still snarky, he chose to blame the drugs.
He and the pacing resumed. “I was leaning over the hay, and my hand touched something furry! All I could think was ‘Holy cats! There’s another one!’ I yelled and jumped back. As I did, I dropped the shovel and it made a heckuva racket. I’d forgotten Ollie. (It was him I touched.) Ollie ran out the door. I dropped to the ground, and the skunk went scuttling behind the toolbox. Now, it’s hiding and won’t come out.” (Note: Cowboys yell. They don’t squawk or [Heaven forbid] squeal.)
For a moment, I was lost to a mental video of this Looney Tunes moment. The tabby screaming “YEEEEEOOOOOWWWWW!” and shooting like an orange rocket. The skunk scurrying so fast it forgot to shoot first and hide later. Best of all, my rough-and-tumble husband hiking an imaginary pink polka-dot skirt, leaping onto the hay, and squealing like a little girl who’s seen a mouse.
Sitting there on the couch, I think I might have actually (almost) giggled. (If cowboys don’t squeal, farm girls don’t giggle.) I was finally seeing the fun side of a drug-fueled trip. Liam looked at me suspiciously. I wiped the grin from my face, tried to look innocent, and asked, “What did you do next?” (Really, it was more like, “Wadjoudonecks?” Luckily, he’s a nurse who speaks fluent Post-Op-ish.)
Intermission: Here, I would like to paraphrase the comedienne Jeannie Robertson and say, “Y’all, this man has a bachelor’s!” (If you’ve never seen this video of Mrs. Robertson, I HIGHLY recommend it!) Despite the next act of our story, Liam is an intelligent man with lots of common sense…….normally. End of Intermission
“Well,” said Liam, “I waited and it didn’t come out. I don’t want to risk it getting the kids or the dogs. So, I was thinking (dramatic pause)…what if I got that old Red Ryder BB gun of the kids’? I could hide behind the hay and zing a shot at it. It might panic and run out. What do you think?”
Seriously?!? DOES NOT COMPUTE…must be the drugs. I swallowed and went from glaring to gaping. Slowly and with an effort to enunciate, I asked, “What did you say?” Rather than laughing, patting my head, and clearing up my drug-muddled misconceptions, Liam reworded the same insane suggestion.
“Well, it would be better if I got it out. That old BB gun doesn’t shoot hard. I think I can just zing it on the bum, and it will run.” He took in my stunned and gape-mouthed expression. He continued a little defensively, “I can hide behind the hay. There’s the risk that it’s rabid.” My hand went to my forehead. A little more defensively, he carried on. “I think it would work (jaw now set). I can make the shot.”
Suddenly, I was able to string whole sentences together. “Are you seriously suggesting shooting a skunk with a BB gun?!? (His jaw now clenched.) “No. The answer is no. Under NO circumstances is startling, scaring, cheesing off, or engaging in any way with a (possibly rabid) skunk IN A CONFINED SPACE an acceptable plan! Leave the door open, and check later FROM A DISTANCE to see if it’s gone. ”
I continued, “And another thing, if you choose to zing the skunk and it “zings” you back, you can make a pallet in the shop! The meds are already making me want to hurl. One whiff of eau de skunk and I’ll lose it!” At this point, I might have rolled my eyes. I definitely smacked my forehead. (Again, drugs. I’m normally nice.) Jaw still set, Liam slipped back out to the shop to peer over the hay bales. Or…so I thought. What I didn’t know was that he had already commandeered the aged Red Rider and smuggled it to the shop.
Pepe Le Pew, as it turns out, hadn’t left the building. So, Liam grabbed his weapon of choice and took up position. Picture, if you will, a grown man snuggling into a coastal-hay sniper’s nest. (My warped brain adds a gillie suit and laser sights.) However, instead of a powerful rifle, he holds a kid’s toy from the 1970s.
The night is dark and the moment tense. A swelling soundtrack builds suspense. The gunman carefully draws down on a furry black and white bum. With a slow breath he prepares, then pulls the trigger. ZING! In a flash, the man drops for cover as a mad chittering and scurrying break out from across the building. The sniper peeps over the hay, just in time to see a black and white rocket shoot out the door and wave goodbye as it crosses the pasture. No return ‘zinging’.
To this day, Liam grins and says, “I told you it would work”. 🤦🏻♀️ Does anyone else have ‘common sense blackouts’? Do any of you have ‘polite blackouts’ when taking pain meds? Please share, if you have a story. It makes my day to hear from you
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