"Nnnnnnngh."
Jul. 8th, 2008 02:54 pmThat was my response to the "Mornin', how ya doin'?" I received from my co-worker this morning. It made him laugh. That's good, because something useful ought to come out of the bizarreness of last night.
I think there is still something hard-wired into humans that makes us very nervous about what lurks out there in the dark. Deep inside our civilized bones, we still know that there are creatures out there bigger and stronger than we are, and with a lot more claws and fangs.
This is my excuse for my reaction to last night's events.
Last night I fell into a deep, went-tubing-rode-horseback-hiked-then-drove-eight-hours type of sleep. So I was particularly jarred when, at quarter till four, I was violently snatched out of my dreaming by the sound of something with far too many claws and teeth DYING HORRIBLY OUTSIDE MY WINDOW.
At least, that's what it sounded like. I bolted out of the bed and hit the floor before I was fully awake. Casper and Nexus (still in velcro-kitty mode after my latest trip out of town) scattered, growling. Somehow, the fact that my cats were alarmed enough to growl at whatever was outside the window terrified me most of all. Heart pounding, I finally got my muzzy thoughts into an order that went something like this: "Catfight. Irene. Other cat? Raccoon? Possum? Meaner than she is!" At that point, I began to worry about my cat, and decided to get a broom and come to the rescue.
As it turns out, elisels coming to the rescue against unknown growly-screechy things in the middle of the night are not terribly heroic. We inch out the door, and we jump a foot in the air when something unseen gives one last "HISS-SPIT" very, VERY nearby. We caaaaaarefully edge over to where Irene is lurking under the porch chair right outside the window, and stoop down to examine the cat. The cat is sitting calmly, with an expression that says, quite plainly: "What? I've got this under control."
Somehow, her calm was eerie. I also found it damnably eerie that whatever had snarled at me when I opened the door never came into sight. I only assume it left because I never heard from it again.
I tried to go back to bed, but was still too creeped-out to sleep, terrified of a thousand dopey ghost stories told to me as a child. It was just that kind of moment. But most of all, I was terrified of falling asleep, only to be awoken by a repeat of that godawful noise. I mean, I have heard a lot of cat-fights. But this was something else, and I'm still of the opinion that Irene faced down a possum rather than another cat. (Not an opossum, either, but a possum. This is Miz'sippi, y'all.) And in the middle of last night when I was tired and disoriented, I couldn't bear the possibility of being woken up again by that same nightmarish screeching.
Yes, basically, I was scared of a sound. But there you are.
Around 4:30 I gave up, showered, dressed for the day, hauled Irene inside to prevent additional epic battles, made my bed, and sprawled out under a blanket to nap until time to go to work. Somehow the act of getting ready for the day distanced me a little bit from the night, and made it okay to sleep.
I think there is still something hard-wired into humans that makes us very nervous about what lurks out there in the dark. Deep inside our civilized bones, we still know that there are creatures out there bigger and stronger than we are, and with a lot more claws and fangs.
This is my excuse for my reaction to last night's events.
Last night I fell into a deep, went-tubing-rode-horseback-hiked-then-drove-eight-hours type of sleep. So I was particularly jarred when, at quarter till four, I was violently snatched out of my dreaming by the sound of something with far too many claws and teeth DYING HORRIBLY OUTSIDE MY WINDOW.
At least, that's what it sounded like. I bolted out of the bed and hit the floor before I was fully awake. Casper and Nexus (still in velcro-kitty mode after my latest trip out of town) scattered, growling. Somehow, the fact that my cats were alarmed enough to growl at whatever was outside the window terrified me most of all. Heart pounding, I finally got my muzzy thoughts into an order that went something like this: "Catfight. Irene. Other cat? Raccoon? Possum? Meaner than she is!" At that point, I began to worry about my cat, and decided to get a broom and come to the rescue.
As it turns out, elisels coming to the rescue against unknown growly-screechy things in the middle of the night are not terribly heroic. We inch out the door, and we jump a foot in the air when something unseen gives one last "HISS-SPIT" very, VERY nearby. We caaaaaarefully edge over to where Irene is lurking under the porch chair right outside the window, and stoop down to examine the cat. The cat is sitting calmly, with an expression that says, quite plainly: "What? I've got this under control."
Somehow, her calm was eerie. I also found it damnably eerie that whatever had snarled at me when I opened the door never came into sight. I only assume it left because I never heard from it again.
I tried to go back to bed, but was still too creeped-out to sleep, terrified of a thousand dopey ghost stories told to me as a child. It was just that kind of moment. But most of all, I was terrified of falling asleep, only to be awoken by a repeat of that godawful noise. I mean, I have heard a lot of cat-fights. But this was something else, and I'm still of the opinion that Irene faced down a possum rather than another cat. (Not an opossum, either, but a possum. This is Miz'sippi, y'all.) And in the middle of last night when I was tired and disoriented, I couldn't bear the possibility of being woken up again by that same nightmarish screeching.
Yes, basically, I was scared of a sound. But there you are.
Around 4:30 I gave up, showered, dressed for the day, hauled Irene inside to prevent additional epic battles, made my bed, and sprawled out under a blanket to nap until time to go to work. Somehow the act of getting ready for the day distanced me a little bit from the night, and made it okay to sleep.