Sadly I don’t recall any details of when  Renaissance Man had his snake attack. Although I vividly remember the photo of the extremely swollen body part that he shared with Grill Man. Dare I say unattractive image is still lingering in my mind with living color details. Did I mention the body part was so swollen that I didn’t know what it was?

His hand had morphed into a supersized blowup ready to pop former version of its self.  Did I need to see that? Why do men feel the need to share the pain in full color with their pals? Surely, a conversation would have been enough to share the drama. Yet, our men upon receipt  share with us the “Oh my, what is that photo?”   EEEWWWWW!

This reflection  only leads to scary thoughts and unnecessary fear. Except a small dose of fear is probably our brain telling us to pay attention. To watch out for things that may occur. Natures way of handing us a warning sign before we step into some dark scary place. Or in my case, step on a dark scary snake.

Well by now your probably wondering what happened.  Earlier this week after an exceptionally long day dealing with employees, contractors, customers, vendors etc. I finally managed to leave work. Upon arriving home, I settled into scavenging for dinner. It had been a very long day.

Clearly, I felt like burnt toast. Not the burnt toast that you still may salvage by scraping with a knife. No my burnt toast looked like the other kind. Toast destined for the trash because you totally forgot it was in the oven and walked away, for a while.

Next, I needed to let My-Dog-Not-My-Dog out for his evening walkabout. Usually this routine occurs much earlier in the evening, I only mention this because it was near dark when we started. As I started my journey too tired to go, my flip-flops were nowhere to be found.

I paused before stepping outside near dark to walk My-Dog-Not-My-Dog and wondered if I had enough energy to lasso the flip-flops. Burnt Toast said no. We proceeded on our journey and since I was at home nothing bad would happen. In my protected bubble all would be well and soon enough I could lay horizontal on the couch and meld into the cushions of comfort.

Yet, it didn’t happen exactly like that. Now’s a good time to mention that my porch occasionally has snake skins. Living in Alabama, we share God’s Country with rodents and reptiles. Most of the time it’s not a big deal, well until it is.

My-Dog-Not-My-Dog and I found a skin this week laying near the front door. I didn’t get excited because this is just part of nature and creatures live outside. As long as everyone knows their role and doesn’t misbehave, I’m ok. Live and let live so to speak.

Clearly snake skins and conversations about snakes or snake sightings had been on my mind. Night before the burnt toast day, I had  a nightmare about a  huge cartoon size headed snake jumping out at me. In my dream in full superwoman fashion  I grabbed the snake as it writhed back and forth.   Then held it out as far as I could and screamed my full head off for My-Dog-Not-My-Dog like any southern belle would. Then I woke up sweating.

Yes, Snake Bitten in Fairhope

Back to the story, as I tiptoed on the very dark brick path near the fountain, I called out to My-Dog-Not-My-Dog  and continued toward the house. My couch was calling and the sound was getting louder by the minute. Suddenly, my right foot stepped on something squishy and at the same time something pricked my foot.

When I say that I instantly jumped, looked down and saw a brown or tan snake heavily patterned with red or coral slithering away it all happened so fast. My first thought was to run for the hills and then I remembered for a snake bite the Doctors needed to know what kind of snake to give the correct anti-venom.

To pick up or not to pick up the snake

Sadly, I needed to grab the snake and as I paused, it slithered. Instead I ran inside and closed the door. Distance is clearly what I wanted in between me and the snake. Standing inside within my protective sphere I remembered My-Dog-Not-My-Dog. He probably wanted to come back inside so I opened the door and called his name.

As my mind raced trying to recall anything I knew about snake bites I checked out my foot. On the inside edge of my right foot, I found a single pierce and drop of blood. Damn. Lots of things raced through my head including Renaissance Man, his snake attack and  whether or not the snake was poisonous.

Did I need to go to the hospital? How often do people die from snake attacks? Would my foot swell up like a watermelon? How bad would it hurt? Where the hell were those damn flip-flops? As I imagined someone leading me out on a stretcher, I called for a lifeline.

In house snake expert provides counsel

Grill Man was out-of-pocket. My Bonus Child would have to come and check out my foot. I regaled my misadventure and answered all of his questions. Bonus Child was very calm about my predicament. Calm although we discussed the several different type of snakes he had seen on our property. From rat snakes to Copperheads and the occasional rattlesnake but my snake surely was not poisonous.

He was sure everything was fine. “Not that many people die from snake bites” he said calmly. Yes but I didn’t want to be one. “Surely the snake was one of the non-poisonous snakes.” he replied. As if to give comfort he said, “If it’s poisonous  you will know pretty soon when your foot starts hurting and it swells.”

All I wanted to know was whether I needed to go to the hospital. Although a trip to the ER is never a fun day, I would be willing to go if pain or swelling started.

With lots of questions, despite a cautionary warning I headed to the internet. Bonus Child didn’t think I would enjoy reading about snakes . Neither did I but I needed to know what I was up against. Gloom and doom lurked on every snake page. Go directly to the hospital said my inner voice that I typically listen to. The burnt toast in me said no. Since I live so close to the hospital I could be there in minutes.

Instead I moved to the couch and waited patiently for the pain to arrive or my foot to start swelling. For at least the next hour every tingle in my foot or leg sent me into a tiny panic. A cocktail sounded like the order of the day and the burnt toast in me agreed. Apparently if your bitten by a snake you should not start drinking. Clearly this was exactly the one thing I wanted to do while I waited.

I waited and tried to stay calm all the while analyzing my situation, Bonus Child’s suggestions and tips from Google-land. Tick tock the time went by slowly as I checked my foot often to look for warning signs. Was he right and it wasn’t poisonous? Or would my bite be a rare snake that lured you into thinking everything was ok and then BAM, I have a big ole’ watermelon foot.

Waiting is torturous when you’re worried or near death. The good news is that the snake bite was not poisonous. Bad news is that he got away. Even now days later I watch wear I step, looking about at what might be lurking and ready to strike.

My-Dog-Not-My-Dog needs to walk closer to me. Into each life some snakes must crawl. Yes, snake bitten in Fairhope. What’s lurking in your yard?

The post Yes, Snake Bitten in Fairhope appeared first on Dining With Mimi.

First, I retrieved key from under the mat and slowly opened the door. I didn’t want lovable Armani  to mistake me for an intruder. We were on a first name basis but I accepted the fact he was a sixty pound Pit Bull dog.  As I slowly entered and called his name, he ran to the door sniffing my new heels as if to say “Where have you been?”

 New Orleans walking a Pit in the Park?

Greetings completed with key in hand and leash, we departed for Coliseum Square. Although I was wearing dress clothes from my day at work, dressed in high heels and war paint, a walk in the park was necessary. Immediately, I felt the heat of the afternoon surround me as I tried to keep pace. Quickly, I attempted to lose myself in the beauty of the architecture and gardens. Finally, I allowed Armani to take me where he wanted to go.

I didn’t sign up for this, did I?

In New Orleans walking a pit, like a lamb being led to a slaughter, I was unaware of my impending doom. Armani’s pace quickened as he lead me to his obsession. Secretly taunting Armani an ancient tree with enormous rope hanging from it called to him. While content in my ignorance as we walked, I daydreamed about old homes.

At once, Armani took flight and attacked the rope which left him suspended three feet off the ground.  Startled out of my daydream, I screamed. Yet, only mildly relieved when I discovered his prize was a nasty old rope hanging from a tree.

Battle ensues in the park

Slowly I approached pit bull and rope, they were in the throes of an awesome tug of war. Silently as I stared at the scene enveloping, slightly panic-stricken I felt like a lead actor in a “Jackass” movie. Seconds before Narrator says “Do not attempt this at home” and cameraman says “Y’all watch this”.

Foolishly, I attempted to talk Armani off of the rope. Violently growling and biting spoke loudly of his mad obsession.  Fearlessly,  I grabbed above where he was chewing furiously and attempted to swing him off. As I tried to tug him back and forth off the rope that was hanging, he would open and snap his jaws again on his prey.  The sixty pound pit, tree and I  were battling in the heat of the afternoon.

Disadvantaged with high heels and dress now clinging to my skin I tugged as hard as possible. In my head, images  flashed of pit bulls biting owner’s. Hell, I wasn’t even the owner. I was the dog walker. Actually not even that, I had been the dog follower. As I tugged, dirt worked its way on my skin and sweat dripped slowly down my back.  Did he remember that I gave him dog treats?

Faint glimmer of hope

After what seemed like a long struggle, eventually I pulled at the exact moment he tried to grab and I removed the rope. Finally  shocked with success, I yanked the menace and headed for home. Within seconds, I noticed my performance art had created an gobsmacked audience. I sighed as I held my head high and pulled Armani hoping they had been too puzzled to video. You-tube video battling a pit was not on my bucket list.

Immediately, I retreated and attempted to regain dignity while pulling a pit bull. In denial and relieved that my ordeal was over, surely  I had earned an icy cold martini. Happily, I  starting walking towards the apartment smiling which quickly faded when I opened my empty hand. Oh God, where was the key?

Now what do I do?

Horror is the word that I would use to describe how I felt when I realized  the key was missing from my hand. While playing games with the sixty pound Pitt and tree, I had dropped her only key. Now I had to take the rope addict back to where his obsession hung and find key.

Armani and I started back towards the tree. He could not believe his luck, he looked back at me as if to say “I never get to do this twice in one day”. Panic set in as I walked, Armani started tugging me towards his obsession. Apparently, I wasn’t moving fast enough. I paused and pulled the beast, my brain wasn’t moving fast enough. Absolutely no clue how I was going to look for key and keep Armani away from attacking rope at the same time.

“Wherefore art thou” Samaritan?

Scanning the park, I looked for anyone that could help me. Fifty yards away, I called out to a guy to help. From fifty yards away, I could see he had no interest in whatever I or the pit bull needed, he picked up his pace and kept on walking. Clearly, we looked like a ton of trouble and he was right.

In silence, I stood shaking my head, drenched with sweat, attempting to hold back an eager dog wanting his playmate. In case you’re wondering, pits with an obsession are very strong. Not long after a middle-aged guy was in shouting distance, I waited until we made eye contact, “Can you help me?” He probably wanted to look the other way like he had never seen me.

Surprisingly, my reluctant Samaritan  walked over and I explained my situation. As a gentlemen he had two choices, he could hold the rope or look for the key under the sand. Or option three was walk quietly away from the crazy woman and her dog. He paused for what seemed like a really long time, then I heard him say, “I will hold the dog.”

Gladly, I relinquished the beast and started looking in the soft, very loose, silty sand under the ancient tree. Where did I drop the key? I was sure it was during the launch when Armani first attacked the rope. After what seemed like a terribly long time, I gave up looking for the key and say bye to my Samaritan.

Hot, deflated and still walking a Pit

Armani and I headed back to the apartment after looking for a long time but it had been hard to concentrate with both man and dog staring at me. Armani and I headed back to the apartment. Walking back, I decided that I would get my car and  we would drive back to the scene of the crime. Leaving Armani in the car would allow me to look freely for the key.

Arriving back I steered the beast to the car, he was happy that we were going for a ride. I slid into the seat, started the car and just sat. The Beast wanted to know what was going on and popped his head near the front and stared at me.  The air-conditioner started cooling and sitting still seemed necessary. I drove back to the park.

Who’s blowing that horn?

Again, Armani could not believe his luck or my ignorance  at returning him to his obsession. He barked to communicate how happy he was to return to the park. As I unhooked the seat belt, Armani nearly jumped in my lap. It was a struggle to get out of the car and leave Armani safe inside. Somehow, I managed to leave him in the front seat, he pounced on the horn and blew it multiple times. Each horn screamed, “Let me out and I want my rope.”

With horn blowing, people in the park were starting to look at the car. They were also looking at me leaving the dog, in the heat of the afternoon in a parked car. I had rolled down the windows and hoped to only be a short time.

Oh angels, hear me please!

Walking to the tree I sent out a prayer hoping it would be heard over the horn blowing loudly. I really needed to find the key. As I started getting closer to the tree, I looked everywhere on the ground walking in circles around the hanging rope. Scanning everywhere, hoping that I had earned a tiny miracle  yet only seeing soft sandy dirt.

Horn still blowing in the background, I  walked around looking for a stick.  Maybe a stick would help move the dirt around more freely. Walking in my new heels  which were no longer looking new anymore, I swished and swished the stick through the sand.

Finally someone high above took pity on me and I uncovered  the tiniest bit of the brassy key. I grabbed it with delight and relief washed over me. This ordeal in New Orleans walking a pit in the park had taken its toll on me.  Never mind, the Pit was sweaty and still fantasizing about his obsession. Now, I needed a shower and two martini’s.

The post New Orleans Walking a Pit appeared first on Dining With Mimi.

My husband was not on board with the idea. It took a fair amount of negotiating on my part. I believe that my husband figured out that it was going to take a fair amount of effort on his part, before, during and after. He was right. We started with 6 and now have about 20. They live with us on five acres in their Chicken Condo and Chicken Penthouse.

In the time that we have had them, it has been educational learning about the chickens. My husband and I are not farmers.  It has been “learn as you go” process for us and the chickens. Somehow, we have all survived, well mostly all.

In my chicken condo we have a fancy French Copper Maran Hen named Frenchie. The rooster was a Cochin named Sterling. He was my gentlemen rooster. Frenchie and Sterling had a mad love affair.

Frenchie has been a snooty hen from the beginning. When you would approach Frenchie  on the nest box to collect eggs, she would do a Linda Blair spin and squawk at you. Her squawk said “Don’t even think about it”. This was typically enough of a warning for me to come back later.

Over time, we adjusted to the “chicken lessons” that we needed to learn. The chicks all seemed to manage despite our lack of Chicken MD or PHD. The chickens had everything that they needed:

Food
Water
Nest boxes
Muscadine vines for shade
Maximum Security Totally Enclosed Chicken Condo
Pine cones Stuffed with Peanut Butter and Bird Seed

I think over time Frenchie decided that she didn’t want the other hens to raise chicks. Frenchie started pecking and breaking eggs. This is certainly not good manners in a chicken coop, let alone a Condo. It took us a while to figure out that she was the culprit.

My husband and I researched for how to handle this bad behavior and discovered that this was a problem and could spread to the other hens.  We decided to move her away from the other hens and put her in another coop.  We didn’t have another coop so we decided that we would put her in a large kennel in the yard until my husband could build a coop.

Remember, I said that we are not farmers.

Frenchie downsized from the condo to a portable dog kennel in the yard.  I was out shopping with a friend, and received a disturbing phone call. Frenchie had been attacked. We raced to the house. I pulled up and went straight to the kennel. Feathers were everywhere, Frenchie  had an attitude, her neck had a large gaping hole and she was missing a wing.

I looked at my friend Red, who is truly an animal lover.  Red is the perfect person to stand with me in this chicken tragedy. Red volunteers with BARC and has lots of compassion. 

BARC is a 501(c)3 non-profit. Established in 1979 as the first and only county-wide animal welfare agency. BARC’s  mission is to cut the number of abused and abandoned pets through spay/neuter, education, rescue and adoption.

Red and I are at a loss. Frenchies’ wounded badly, but she’s still standing. Her neck has a huge slash and she’s missing a wing?  I didn’t have a book that prepared me for this. We discussed among ourselves about what we should do.

My husband was not home. I reached him on the phone and give him the lay of the land. I asked him to call Doctor M for an opinion. A few minutes later I heard the laugh all the way from Arkansas. “I called him” my husband said. I replied, ” What’s the verdict” ? Doctor M said “In Arkansas, Frenchie’s situation wasn’t a problem, it was  lunch.”

Our options were call the vet or get the shotgun.  Red calls her Vet and explains all the gory details. The Vet listened and advised that based on the information  presented that he wasn’t sure that she would survive the surgery.  He also could not quote a price without seeing her. Did I mention that it was Saturday?

The Vet answered all my questions. He was struggling with telling me “Hey lady, it’s a chicken” . To his credit, he did not say that. I hung up the phone and still was at a loss. It didn’t sound like Frenchie was going to survive even with the Vet visit.

Remember, this is a Snotty French Chicken with a behavior problem.

Red and I decided that we would clean Frenchie’s wounds and let nature take it’s course.  How do you pick up a chicken that was attacked and is missing a wing? Gently, very gently.

I picked her up with a towel and wrapped it around her. We cleaned the wounds and put some antibacterial ointment around her gaping neck wound. It didn’t look good for Frenchie. We moved her kennel back inside the chicken coop. This way she would be protected but not able to roam the coop nor would the other chickens peck at her.

Sterling, my French Rooster, laid down beside the kennel and sat there for days to keep her company.

As luck would have it, we were leaving the next day for a business trip. Red agreed that she would come over every other day and attend to Frenchie. I fully expected to get a call everyday saying that she passed and officially had “flown the coop”. When I returned, Frenchie was still alive.

A few days later a major thunderstorm blew thorough our little town. In a big storm a small river flows through my yard. An area holds water and  floods in the corner of the Chicken Condo. Guess which corner we put Frenchie in?

In the dark and pouring rain my husband went to the coop to retrieve Frenchie. Frenchie is now a “mad wet hen” standing in water and close to drowning in the kennel in the coop.

I am sitting on my couch minding my business when I look up and see my husband standing at the back door drenched holding a mad wet hen. I go to the door , look at my husband and the mad wet hen. I don’t really say anything because I am at a loss for words.  My husband says “She’s wet”. I reply “Yes, I see that”. He says “And she’s muddy”.

Just to recap, I have a Snotty French Hen, with gaping hole in her neck,  missing a wing, wet, muddy and has a behavior problem.   I really am at a loss but I get a couple of old towels and antibiotic ointment.  I go to the back door, let my husband and his mad wet hen in the house.

We put her in the sink and oddly enough she stays there. I use the faucet sprayer and rinse the dirt from her as well as possible. My husband stands with his hands above her if she starts to get frisky with her one good wing and attempts to fly. I administer the ointment gently while the mad wet hen watches my every move.

I ask my husband to get the hair dryer. He looks at me puzzled. He says “It’s probably not a good idea to heat up the chicken. ” Again I am puzzled about what to do. I can’t dry her with hair dryer, I can’t put her outside wet, I can’t let her loose in my house. I go to the bar stool and sit.

My husband brings me the mad wet hen wrapped in towels. I sit in my kitchen and hold her wrapped in towels for about 15 minutes. We bonded.

My husband retrieves her kennel and moves it to the big house on my porch. Frenchie moves into her “Porch Kennel” and settles in. After a couple of days of discussing the entire ordeal of gaping neck wound, missing wing, attempted drowning, I decided she needed meds. She was a survivor and not going down without a fight.

I went to Cecil’s at Old Tyme Feed and Seed. I went to the clerk and asked a couple of questions about chickens and medicine. The clerk had a ton of questions on his own. I had to explain my Snotty French Hen with the behavior problem,  gaping hole and missing wing.

My story was so interesting the clerk had to get help from another gentlemen. Someone else came over and I had to tell my story all over again. I think they were amused. The next thing I knew, I was going home with antibiotics and a syringe. Yep, I was going to learn how to give a Snotty French hen a shot.

I will skip the entire “how to give a mad hen a shot”. You can fill in the blanks, I am sure. While Frenchie was convalescing on the porch at the big house, I noticed that after Sterling cock-a- doodled do every morning Frenchie would make this warbled attempt at something that was an attempt at crowing. Hens don’t crow.

She was talking to her lover, Sterling. I am pretty sure that she was saying “Sterling, I’m at the big house. Lover, come save me. The crazy woman  that moved me from the Chicken Condo to the kennel where I was attacked has now kidnapped me. I am being held hostage on her porch. She keeps torturing me with a scary needle. Help! Hurry!”

My French crowing hen survived her ordeal and is still a great layer. It has been over almost two years since she was attacked. I am happy to report that her neck wound healed on its own and her wing grew back.

That would make a good story! Her wing did not grow back but all her feathers hide it well. It’s only visible when she runs and she may be out of balance. She is alive and well. Frenchie is back in the condo with her other Peeps although I am sure that her pecking order is not what it once was. Frenchie no longer has an egg pecking problem.

Moral to the story: If your Snotty with a bad attitude, you may be relocated and who knows what could happen. Behave and be nice.

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This week is one for the record books. My knight in shining armor came home from a business trip, very tired. Planes, trains , taxi and time zone change, add up to a lot of fun for a 6′ 6″ person. He was very happy to return home.

After day one of being home, he realized that he had acquired a contagion ‘of sorts’. Our house rule states,  the sick spouse has to move to ‘the cave’. He sadly grabbed his essentials and moved upstairs.

I tried to aid as much as possible to ease the pain. I brought him meals. I made him homemade soup and hot tea with honey. I forced vitamins and my version of an essential oil pill that I concocted using my ‘potions’.

Luckily, I had to go to my day job!

After day five of time served in the cave, my Man moved back to our bedroom. He was not 100% but getting better. I was happy. I was in denial. After the return of the “contagion host”, we fell into our normal routine. I was blissfully unaware of my impending doom. Then, he kissed me.

I am sure that you know how the story ends. If I don’t continue, you’ll miss the “Honey, Get Your Gun” story.

After the proper incubation period, my throat was sore. Once the recognition kicked in, I immediately went looking for the “contagion host”. I was not happy. He grabbed his essentials and moved back to  the cave, otherwise known as “contamination central”.

I won’t go into the gory details of my ailments.  I am grateful to experience good health normally. I feel for those that suffer with ongoing health issues. I know that it must take a toll on the body, mind and soul. Not to mention, the price that their loved ones deal with every day.

After five days of dealing with everything associated with becoming the host contagion, I was desperate, to be well. In addition to everything else, the coughing woke me up very, very early. (3-ish) I spent an hour,  dealing with the cough, reading and catching up on instagram.

I heard a ruckus noise, in the distance. I listened to find what it was and then realized that it was my chickens. I checked the time. It was too early for the normal “cock-a-doodle-do”. I jumped up and ran out the back door to get a better reading on the  peep racket. Everyone in the chicken condo and penthouse were crowing and clucking to beat the band.

I ran upstairs to enter the “contagion zone”. I called out to my husband. He didn’t answer. I raised my voice and called out again. He didn’t answer. I knocked on the door and said, “Honey, get your Gun!”

I am pretty sure that is on the top 10 “list of things that you don’t want to hear from your wife in the middle of the night”.

Once I realized that he was up and moving, I hurried downstairs to listen again. I went outside on the porch. The Peeps were “up in arms about something”. We had already lost one hen about two months ago to a predator that managed to wiggle in and out of the coop.

The ruckus in the coop was still going on. I went to the edge of the porch and turned on the lights. I clapped loudly and yelled something that I can’t remember now. Sorry, neighbors!

I ran inside to get a pair of flip-flops and a flashlight. As I was heading out, my husband was coming out of the house in his pj’s, carrying a shotgun and barefoot. Did I mention, it was dark outside?

I asked him if he was going outside barefoot and he replied “Yes!”. Our house is on five acres and the chicken condo is away from the house. I carried the industrial flashlight and headed for the coop. My Man was barefoot and toting a shotgun. We may need a pair of night vision goggles.

This is exactly, when I would expect a news crew to show up and photograph a “southerner”. Luckily, this did not happen.

The Peeps were making a ton of racket. Not the normal, “Hey, look I’m going to lay an egg”. My man was checking the perimeter. I moved beside him with the flashlight. Once the Peeps realized that we were there, they went quiet almost instantly. This too, is not normal peep behavior.

The peeps typically ignore us when they are all a-chatter. Unless, I am bringing snacks, then I am the focus of their attention. Well, not really me, it’s the snacks that they’re after. I am just the dealer.

We completed, on our patrol of the perimeter. We were unable to find anything. I flashed the Peeps with the light, and didn’t see anything but chickens.  I decided to go search the inside of the coop. My barefoot husband, wisely stayed outside the coop.

As I started to open the door, the same door where a snake dropped down before, I paused . “Come in the coop, if you  hear me scream” I replied , as I entered.  I searched the coop with the light but was unable to find a predator. I said goodnight to my Peeps and headed back inside. My Man headed back to bed.

From the sound of the ruckus, I was fully ready to witness a tragedy in my coop. I am grateful to whatever, scared off the predator. My peeps were safe. The snake didn’t fall on my head. I headed back to bed. It was going, to be a good day.

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