If you know anything about rock stars you know that they are not typically “rural” people. They feel at home on the stage or in the sometimes-sketchy club scene, but when it comes to country life and wild animals they are out of their element for the most part. I have to admit that my rockstar has fit this profile to a ‘T’, that is until 2:30am this morning.
Yes folks, at 2:30am my husband, wearing boxer briefs and flip flops while wielding a mighty dangerous hoe (the kind you chop weeds with!), became an official country bumpkin. It only took him 6+ years of living here to achieve that status. Let me explain.
We were having a restless night already due to the fact that our children just could not seem to get comfortable in any other bed than ours. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of experiencing 4 human bodies in one queen size bed, take my word for it. It’s a tangled mass of hot and sweaty limbs mixed with the stale stench of night-time breath. It's hell. It’s a wonderful bonding experience. Around 2:30am our two dogs, who had been out roaming in the cool night air, started barking ferociously. They barked and they barked until finally I gave up and did what any good wife does. I punched Rockstar and told him to get up and find out what they could possibly be so concerned about. I heard him go out the door and call them, and shortly after I heard the sound of giant paws in the laundry room. Things were going well. That meant Fenway, the golden retriever, had torn himself from whatever held his attention so intently and had willingly come inside without much hassle. Something was amiss though.
Rockstar was calling and calling for Tango (the rat terrier) and apparently she was not responding. Within moments he was stomping into the bedroom and donning his flip flops. He was trekking out to get the little one. I could tell he was in a bit of a huff. It was 2:30am after all and it was raining. In the interest of marital security, I decided that I would get up and help. We found Tango (all 10lbs of her) snarling and barking with all of her might at a cornered armadillo in our flower bed and she was not giving up anytime soon. (I’d like to think she fully believed that she was saving us and our children from the vicious creature that was trying to dig its way under our foundation. Yes, I’m sure that was it.) That’s when Rockstar, in all his glory, grabbed the hoe from the garage. I, barefoot and in my pjs as well, backed the car out of the garage and positioned it where the lights would give us a clear view of this creature. We watched awhile as Tango moved in barking with teeth bared and the armadillo made horrible growly-hissing noises. This was scary stuff, let me tell ya! Then Rockstar made his move, inching closer and closer, hitting the ground with the hoe attempting to scare one of the two animals away. He eventually managed to break Tango from her trance and she moved far enough from the armadillo that I felt safe in running up and grabbing her.
I held Tango in my arms and Rockstar and I took a moment to laugh and mention that this was great blog material before I headed inside with her. Just then though, as if God had to have one last pot shot at us, Chris stepped toward the car to move it back into the garage and sunk ankle deep in a gigantic mudhole in the driveway. I laughed all the way to the house as he stood in the driveway yelling, “AWESOME! This is JUST AWESOME!”
P.S. We left the troublemaker armadillo to wander off on his own but I have no doubt that we'll eventually have a run in with him again. He just better watch it. If Rockstar gets any braver he may lose a tail.