Crazy things happen on the farm.
I spent a few days out at my parents walnut farm this week, where I lazed around and listened to chicken talk. They discussed the roosters, and the high cost of feed, and worried about the mysterious disappearance of eggs. They also conspired to lay their eggs in the woodpile, to throw the evil egg-snatching Farmer’s wife off.
My baby sister is on the farm too.
Isn’t she cute?
Now is the time to announce that this post is not for the faint of heart, nor for those who are especially attached to the rodent species commonly referred to as “little white mice”.
Did you notice what my beautiful baby sister has wrapped around her arm?
It’s a Ball Python.
I tried to talk her into getting a lizard, but obviously no one listens to me.
My mother was horrified. HORRIFIED. She is now living with a snake. A snake that lives about 30 years or so and will grow to be about 30 pounds, or five feet whichever comes first. It will probably need to live on rabbits or goats or something. Can you imagine?
To commemorate my mother’s reptile reticence, my sis and I quickly christened the awful creature Squeezie Donna (My mother’s name is Donna and um, the snake squeezes it’s prey to death so it seemed like a winning combination)(we did it to bug my mom).
That night, my sis asked me to sleep in her room (with Squeezie Donna). I said no.
I said no.
She called upon our sisterhood.
So, I slept with a python in the room. The snake apparently requires a creepy red light to sleep at night. Creepy.
I finally drifted off but at about 3 am I saw a shadowy figure lurking over me, the red glow faded to black…then there was a mysterious “CHhhchhchchchchchch” sound.
My sister was spraying the snake tank at 3 am to raise the humidity levels for delicate little Squeezie. Who does that???!?! Needless to say, I’ve had more restful nights camping in the Arctic.
The time came to feed Squeezie. He needed a mouse. The snake book said he needed a livemouse. Hold onto your hats, things are about to get real!
My dad brought the mouse home. I looked in his little box, his beady red eyes looked intelligent, his whiskers were twitching with excitement.
It was terrible.
I didn’t let the boys watch. My sister couldn’t even do it. She made my Dad do it. All this drama and murder and tension caused my Dad to think up a little ditty.
(here is a picture of my Daddy. He’s the one with the pirate eye and the knife…which didn’t factor into the mouse death, Squeezie lived up to his name and did it himself without weapons of anykind, just his snake-y Chuck Norris muscles).
Anyway, try to imagine this song with jazz hands, because Dad definitely threw those in:
“I’m a happy mouse! When I’m in your house!
Oh look! a brand new friend to play with, hurrah!
I’m a happy mouse! When I’m in your house! I’m so glad to have a brand new home!
I’m a happy….phttt (at this point my dad would roll his eyes back into his head and stick his tongue out).”
At this point, there were only two happy people in the farm house: Squeezie Donna and my Dad, the cold hearted Animal Science Major.