It has been a fleeting, strange summer around here and I need a hardcore attitude adjustment. I think my dank perspective of the world spawns from the constant veil of drizzle in the air and the fact that moss patches are sprouting on the north side of our log cabin and the cranes foraging in the fields above our abode are styling Xtratufs.
Just like 12 years ago, I now have rain gear for my rain gear and the low areas in our backyard have developed significant ponds with tidal fluctuations. Ducks are seeking temporary shelter beneath the cabin’s deck and the last hatchlings of feral pheasant chicks look to be running around on what suspiciously resemble web feet.
I’m also starting to agonize over our latest generation of weasels inhabiting the wood pile. The other day I could’ve sworn I spotted Jetpak, latest lead dude of the pack, paddling around in a flooded pothole desperately pursuing a new species of Aqua-vole. Not a good look for the little stud.
Of course, that possible hallucination could have been triggered by aches and pains that blast through my aging carcass every time a low weather front moves into the area. And, there’s been a lot of those lately.
I haven’t seen this much pure muck generated in a long time unless you want to compare it to the gunk included in some of the latest election campaigns ads. Things have gotten so nasty that certain members of both parties are debating whether or not the other party’s leaders should be retired and given official positions as national mimes in the tourist sections of the capitol rotunda. Some people just do better if they don’t say a word.
These stubborn monsoon rains have also stimulated the rapid growth of a plethora of plants.
If I had the skills, I’d log some of the old growth pushki plants around here and build an equipment shed. The remaining plantae would remain untouched and be designated a temperate rain forest.
As for our lawn? Trying to mow that mess was akin to harvesting seaweed so the area went untouched for a while. By the time things lightened up, transient wildlife will have probably established game trails throughout our front and backyards.
The only critters that seem to be cool with the tangled jungle that shot up around us were Annie and her ruffian offspring Numnutz.
Annie is a young cow moose who tried to keep a handle on the mischievous Num who constantly got into trouble moseying around in meticulously maintained flower beds and gardens. He also became notorious for causing an uproar by bull-rushing cock roosters challenging him when he wandered into their ‘hood or got near their harems.
During the latest elongated inclemency, he enticed his mom into joining him while he concocted raspberry smoothies by stripping the saturated fruit hanging off of this year’s half-drowned vines.
Normally wintering moose amble through during cold stretches and trim our dormant rows, but not this time. With ole Numnuts leading the way, the duo laid waste to our resources for deep winter pies by pounding down the fresh berries my bride usually freezes to create holiday masterpieces.
Yeah, this sort of thing has happened before, but this year’s plundering was especially galling because the little $%&^ seemed to enjoy wreaking havoc.
To say the least, such wanton behavior is not conducive to Num’s future as a mighty bull surrounded by adoring moosettes swooning over his broad shoulders and massive horns.
Why? Cause, he’s really has me chewin’ fire with his antics.
The scamp has a prominent scar over his left eye which is now tattooed into my memory banks. That alone will guarantee his transition into a culinary masterpiece should we cross paths again once he becomes of legal age and Annie has drop-kicked his delinquent butt into the real world to fend for himself.
I can’t wait.
Nick can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org if he isn’t busy mumbling to himself while searching his archives for old family recipes featuring young bull moose meat cuts — especially if he can make them star a certain scared ungulate miscreant with a proclivity for sodden berries.