Ratatouille With a Side of Pepper Spray Please

So walking the dogs on Monday morning, I bent over to do that scoop thing when I suddenly felt something wet on my leg. I realized that while bending over, I accidentally pressed the top of my pepper spray dispenser which was now leaking the red fluid down my right side and causing a serious burning sensation.

I tried to hurry the other four-legged roommate who was taking his sweet time with his morning routine and then hobbled back into the building and sat in a warm bath trying to get that shit off me. It occurred to me while soaking that the pepper spray dispenser (with purple tip) just hadn't worked right since I used it on the rat several weeks ago.

You know I'm cursed when it comes to animals and this rat has by far been one of the creepiest, most awful thing I've encountered in Miami (other than a few first dates but that's another post for another day).

The run-in with Ratzilla occurred around 6AM when it was still pretty dark out. Clad in running shorts, an old concert T-shirt, flip flops and my eye glasses I took the roommates out for their morning stroll. We typically head over to an area about a block away that has a lot of green space and then make our way through an alley of sorts towards Brickell Ave (the main drag through downtown Miami) before heading back to the apartment.

On this particular morning, the dogs had finished what they needed to do and we were headed down the alley when I saw something running towards us.

My first assumption - "A dog! I wonder why it's not on a leash? hmmmm" (please remember I'm tired, it's dark and I'm wearing glasses)

My second (and last) assumption - "Maybe its a cat. Or a raccoon?"

OH MY GOD!!!! IT'S A DAMN RAT AND IT'S GOING TO RUN ME OVER AND DESTROY THE DOGS!!!"

People. IT WAS HUGE. No exaggerating here - it easily would have out-weighed the Pug.

I immediately picked up Riley and threw him under one arm like a football - after all, he can't see more than three inches in front of him so how would he know friend from foe; dog from rat?

I only had a few seconds to go through my options:

A) Run the other direction but towards wherever Super Rat was going? (umm pass)
B) Make like Carl Edwards and hurdle Ratatouille with a Pug under one arm and the Dalmatian restrained somehow...in flip flops? (complicated but possible)
C) Turn the 10 year old Dalmatian loose and hope she can take him out? (totally not gonna happen given that in her lifetime she's only killed frogs and a sick dove)
D) Spray the damn thing with pepper spray and pray that it impales the creature enough for us to get around him.

So we went with a combination of B and D which seemed to make sense at the time. With the Pug securely under my arm, Paris' leash tightly held and my pepper spray at the ready...I unloaded an entire container of that shit on Ratatouille. Let me tell you what I learned:

• Pepper spray does not really slow a rat down but does make a rat scream.
• I curse a lot.
• Dalmatians fear rats.
• A rat recently sprayed with hot magma innately knows where the assailant is and chooses to move in the assailants direction. No matter what.
• When afraid, I run like a Muppet away from danger.

As I was making my escape (again, please use your powers of visualization here), I ran right past a security guard who apparently heard screaming and was coming to my aid - too late I might add. The man is doubled over and can't breath. As I hit Brickell and start to turn towards my building, he gets out "You Okay?"

Ummmmm - NOOOOO!!! I don't think there's a recovery program (for me or the dogs) for giant rat encounters.

Life Lessons in a Pet Store

Okay...so I spend a great deal of time and money at Petsmart. I should own stock in Royal Canin. Each four-legged roommate requires a different formula perfect for their delicate digestive systems.
So I was on one of my many trips to Petsmart earlier this week to stock up on supplies. When I got to the appropriate food isle, I realized there were only small bags of "Pug Formula" instead of the larger bag we require in my household. With arms loaded up with multiple, small bags of puppy chow I headed back to the front of the store to retrieve a shopping cart. I'm good but I'm pretty sure weilding the 50 pound bag of "Senior Formula" with the other bags would have been pretty much impossible and totally laugh-able.

As I'm walking towards the doors, the fishtanks caught my eye...so pretty! I watched a beautiful, small stingray swim gracefully in its tank. Clutching my bags of food I wondered if I should consider starting a saltwater tank but I've heard they're horribly difficult to maintain and one high maintenance item in the house (moi) is enough.
While pondering the "to fishtank or not to fishtank" question, the stingray gracefully glided up to the side of tank exposing it's pale underside, slapped its body against the side of the tank (trapping an innocent by-stander fish) and began to slurp its prey through an opening in its abdomen. It was disturbing. I stood there with my mouth open, clutching my precious Pug Formula and watching this sloppy eater devour a precious, little fish.
I was not the only one watching. I looked down and saw two little girls who could not have been older than four or five, holding hands watching the scene much like I was; with their mouths open and in complete shock.
The older of the two turned to me and asked "That mommy fish just put that baby fish in its pouch, right?"
How am I supposed to answer this? My sister is a vet so she's pretty open with my three year old niece about life and death - maybe I should be? But what if it freaks them out and they start to cry? I don't want an angry parent chasing me down! Besides, I wouldn't be as nimble loaded down with dog food.
My Answer: "Well if by "baby" you actually mean "prey" and by "pouch" you actually mean "mouth or gullet," then YES! That's exactly what happened!"
I did a quick sweep of the area for their parents and then I darted for the carts to complete my dog food mission. This also settled my delima on whether "to fishtank or not to fishtank." I'll choose "not" so that I don't have to have these daily life lessons.

The Story That Started it All...

Okay...so my co-workers have finally convinced me that I need to start writing down the things that happen to me and one of them even named this blog (thanks Sean) and may have threatened to steal my stories and write a book if I didn't do this - I didn't realize they were that good. So here I am trying to figure out this whole blog thing and thought there was no better place to start than with the story that started the dialog about documenting these stories in the first place...the Iowa turkeys story.

Prior to moving to the beautiful city of Miami, I spent a year and a half in Sioux City, Iowa. Also known as Suck City to the locals. I became a vegetarian during my time there. It smelled bad. Really bad and nothing like bacon as I was originally told. It had an odor like a set of nun chucks to the olfactory senses. Also, nothing in the brochures indicated that when it snowed in October, IT DID NOT MELT UNTIL APRIL. This should have been disclosed somewhere. Shame on you Sioux City Chamber of Commerce. Do you see now why I moved to Miami?

My apartment was surrounded by nothing but undeveloped land overgrown with grasses, weeds and all sorts of strange fauna I couldn't identify if you paid me. Paris and I would often walk at night after work (this was prior to Riley joining our pack in June 2009) and at the conclusion of our two mile workout was the uphill 1/2 mile climb back to the apartment complex.

On one such walk in July 2008, Paris started diving into the brush. This was typical bad dog behavior as she searched for discarded candy bar wrappers, fast food items and half empty slushie cups thrown from vehicles ensuring that she would remain sick the rest of the day if she ingested one of these found "treasures." On this morning however, she spent more time than usual searching the brush and had completely disappeared while I held onto the other end of her retractable leash.

She suddenly emerged, quite pleased with herself, and fiercely shaking what looked like a pigeon. I uttered some inappropriate words and managed to get her to drop the poor thing which turned out to be a baby turkey. This is when the first of several bad things occurred - all within about a minute.

1). The brush began to vibrate and started moving in a way not natural to Iowa breezes.
2) I could see tail feathers pop up before my eyes but being a city girl, had no idea what I was looking at.
3) A fireball of feathers flew (yes flew) out of the brush and attached itself to the side of my Dalmatian still pleased with herself over her find.
4) Paris suddenly collapsed to the ground and began to shriek in pain as she wrestled with the strange feathered beast.
5) I, in my infinate wisdom and experience with wildlife, dropped kicked the feather ball from the side of my dog causing her to yelp in even more pain.
6) More than half a dozen turkeys (read: feathered gang members) emerged from the foliage to defend the honor of the Butterball football I had just punted about 10 yards away from me.
7) The gang of turkeys started to ATTACK ME!!!

In a moment (which my co-worker affectionately calls the "Platoon Moment") I tossed my bleeding and wounded Dalmatian onto my shoulders - her front legs and back legs dangling from either side of my neck - and started running....up hill. People, this was not pretty.

A kind neighbor sitting by her garage heard the commotion (turkeys are LOUD when they're pissed!) and rushed to my assistance with the only weapon at her disposal. A lawn chair.

She said...and I quote "You go ahead and I'll hold them off!" She was very serious and I was not about to argue.

I reached my building and headed for the vehicle, tossing my dog into my car. As I pulled out of the apartment complex, I watched in terror as my sixty year old neighbor swatted at a dozen or so turkeys (more had joined the ranks of the unruly) with her LAWN CHAIR! Sadly, her grandchildren sat nearby laughing.

As I sat in the vet's office waiting for Paris to get stitched up (sidebar: I did not know turkeys had tallons) I tried to explain how she got her injuries to the vet tech. Who laughed at me. A lot.

Unfortnuately, Paris' stitches re-opened the next day and she had to be taken back to the Vet where by then, the whole staff had heard about the story. I would have thought these people would have seen turkey attacks more frequently but I was wrong.

Paris has fully recovered from her run-in with a gang of turkeys but her story lives on...and now thanks to me, will live on forever in a blog. Best dog mom ever!!!

But we do love a good Thanksgiving turkey...