Animal Stories

 

            Animal Stories

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It was a dark and stormy night. Oh, wait! Different story.

It was the day before New Year’s Eve. Leo and I were sitting in the sun chatting after he had mouse-proofed my washing machine with a length of screen and duct tape.

Mice are on the move every year during corn harvest when they temporarily are forced out of their home and well-stocked grocery. My washing machine sits tucked away in the back corner of my patio, outdoors. This is not the first time mice thought the machine makes a good dwelling place. It’s only a short scurry to the Dog Dish fast-food restaurant.

Take my word for it, you do not want mice to set up housekeeping inside your washing machine. Our solution isn’t pretty, but aesthetics don’t matter or is it that I make it oblivious to myself?

So we were sitting in the sun just chewing the fat, satisfied with outwitting a horde of stinky mice. (That sentence is technically wrong on so many levels but I’m an old woman and I no longer care.) Leo asked me if I had enough drinking water to last until Tuesday morning or did I want him to go fill my empty jug now.

That question was code for, “I’m a young man and this is New Year’s and all my friends and I will be partying and I won’t return before Tuesday.” Then he asked about my New Year plans.

I laughed. “Oh, Leo. I’m such a party animal. I will be kicking up my heels on Sunday night too. I will. In bed with a good book by 7:30, that is. Asleep by 9:00, no doubt. The noise of fireworks might wake me, but I’ll roll over and go back to sleep. I’m a bear-ish kind of party animal.”

Then Leo asked, “What age were you when you no longer wanted to party?” This was code for “I’m 36 and party life is no longer as fun as it used to be.”

I gave thought to his question. “Everyone’s different, Leo. Drinking and dancing and all that was fun, but, for me, partying always carried a cloud of fear. I’ve looked back a lot. Drinking and dancing, for me, was an excuse for the ‘all that’. I kept trying though. It was a relief when I could finally say, ‘I’m done.’”  I’d always had to be on guard from my own actions, always scared, afraid of what I might do or say or cause. Most people aren’t that way. Most people don’t count their drinks and wonder why stopping at two didn’t work.”

As an example, I told Leo about my first New Year’s Eve party, welcoming 1964, in the Cowboy Bar in Dodson. I was only 18 but it didn’t matter. This was ’63-’64 in Dodson. I was with my husband. The bar was packed. This bar served two kinds of drinks and I sure wasn’t drinking whiskey. I might have had two beers but that didn’t keep me from trouble.

I remember saying something horrible to a neighbor. Maybe nobody heard. He probably wouldn’t remember. But I do. I spent many nights awake in humiliation and self-loathing, reliving my actions. That may sound like a small thing but it was huge to me. I’ve spent time re-living every party.  I do not miss those nights afterward, swamped in guilt and fear and embarrassment.

If you want to know how to really party, watch the Partridge Doves. Those little feathery fluffs know how to have a good time. A whole flock has set up housekeeping in my Bottlebrush tree. They paint a Christmas card picture, sitting on branches in pairs in the early morning chill, huddled, preening, fussing, being worshipped by the rising sun.

One could do with a worse model. The night of New Year’s Eve, 2023-2024, sure enough, I was in bed before eight, snuggled in my Christmas bed jacket, my replacement addiction, a book in hand, Amazon my pusher, party animal that I am.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Welcome to 2024

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