Animals are dicks
So guys, looks like I’m on a stealing-blog-inspiration BINGE right now. I’ve milked The New York Times dry, so it’s time to move on up to more prestigious material. This inspiration steal comes from the ever witty, critically acclaimed, guaranteed to make you snicker just loudly enough in your cubicle to be embarrassing, Another Damn Life by Lyn.
In her latest post, Lyn recounts a recent camping adventure. Since John and I happened to go camping last weekend, I really felt I could relate to many of her experiences of the slightly oversold joys of camping, especially this little nugget of wisdom:
Animals are dicks.
Yes, animals ARE dicks. And on our camping trip one of them was IN OUR TENT.
Ok, so we invited her in and she happens to live with us, but details, details!
Full disclosure: While these are pictures of us camping, they are not from the camping trip in question. We failed to take any pictures worth sharing.
It was Cassie’s first camping trip and she did not quite grasp the concept of the tent. Not that I blame her – it IS weird considering we have the option of an actual roof over our heads. We thought she might enjoy getting in touch with her ancestral roots in the great outdoors but turns out she really prefers a queen sized bed with a memory foam topper. She made this painfully clear when, immediately after we zipped up the tent, she jammed herself at the exit so violently that she tore a hole through the mesh big enough for her to fit through.
Did I mention we had just spent nearly six hours driving to our destination? And that upon arrival we had realized we left behind our patented Camping Box of Essentials and that only the presence of our more prepared friends prevented this from being a complete disaster? And that as a result, a certain female member of the household was already none too pleased with a certain male member of the household, and now also wanted to kill the K9 member of the household?
Oh yes, camping… so relaxing. And so few people to hear you
kill violently hug your nearest and dearest.
And thus this happy family settled in for a night of
barely contained evil looks marital bliss, complete with a leash tied to John’s wrist to keep our spooked-out dog from running outside through the hole in the tent.
Why was she spooked you ask? Well, back to the original premise: ANIMALS ARE DICKS.
The campsite we were at was infested with marmots. In case you’re not familiar, marmots are basically fat squirrels that live in the ground. We learned that they squeak. Especially at night. At high enough frequencies to really freak out a dog.
None of us really slept much that night. We tossed and turned, grabbed at Cassie when she tried to escape the tent, and looked at each other in fearful confusion when the chorus of marmots outside reached an alarming decibel at about 3 am. (It may have been a sacrifice of some kind, it’s better we don’t know the details.) I believe it was about 4:30 am when the marmot squeaks were finally overtaken by the birds on a mad, ultraviolet cocaine binge.
When I crawled out of the already-too-hot tent the next morning at 7 am, having slept approximately 45 minutes, and walked to the outdoor tap to splash cold water on my hideously puffed-up face, I looked over at the lake next to us bathed in beautiful morning light and thought, fuck I love camping.
Cassie got the hang of camping the next night and slept peacefully. We patched the hole in the tent entry with duct tape. The marmots continued to be fat.