Last week Barnaby Jones died valiantly of a wasp sting/snakebite/shark attack. It was awful and I still can’t write about it without crying. I loved that damn dog. The foxen have been cleared of any suspicion of involvement in his death. By Victor. Who I think might be biased, since he seems set on taming them and creating a fox circus. This will not stand. Honestly, I know the foxen aren’t responsible for Barnaby’s death, but I suspect that if Victor weren’t feeding them all the time, they would have been hungry enough to eat the wasp/snake/shark that killed Barnaby. I have forbidden Victor to throw food in the backyard. He says I’m crazy and that he stopped doing that a long time ago. Three hours later I saw a fox walk by the bedroom window eating a leftover hamburger. Mother. Fucker.
Our house seems to be infested with scorpions. Awesome. They’re not the fatal kind, but they hurt like hell if they sting you, and they’re creepy and were made by Satan. Fortunately, cats are immune to scorpion venom (fun fact!), so they’re safe. Unfortunately, the cats don’t understand that I am not immune to scorpion venom, and so instead of killing them they just bat them toward my bare feet while I’m watching TV. Probably because they want me to join in the fun. Or because these cats are assholes. I’m leaning toward the latter, because these same cats just murdered Hailey’s pet frogs today. It was a goddamn massacre. First snakes, then the frogs, then a plague of scorpions. I’m starting to suspect we’ve reached the end of days, or have built our home on an Indian graveyard. I keep searching for the dead bodies supposedly buried in my neighborhood, but if I don’t find them soon I’m going to just have to assume someone built this house over them.
The exterminators have come to spray for scorpions four times in the last month, and it’s not working. I read online that chickens eat scorpions, so I consider buying some, until Victor reminds me of the foxen. So, basically I can’t get chickens to take care of the scorpion infestation, because the chickens will be eaten by the fox infestation. I think I need a lion to eat the foxen. Except we can’t have a lion, because of deed restrictions.
Frankly, I’m not even sure what the point was of moving out to the country if you aren’t allowed to have lions.
The exterminator says the scorpions are probably all coming from the attic, because that’s where scorpions like to live, so I went on an Internet chat room for advice.
INTERNET GUY: You need to buy some ducks. Ducks eat the shit out of scorpions.
ME: But the scorpions are in my attic.
INTERNET GUY: You get about five hundred ducks up there and you’re not gonna have to worry about any more scorpions left in your attic.
ME: Yeah . . . I guess. But then I’ll have five hundred ducks in my attic.
INTERNET GUY: You got a gun?
And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t ask for advice on the Internet.
Victor bought a giant bag of diatomaceous earth that he’s going to use to kill all the scorpions. Apparently, it’s dirt that makes scorpions commit suicide, and it sounds like something wizards would sell you.
“Did they teach you how to pronounce ‘Avada Kedavra’ when you bought it?” I ask. Victor just stares at me. Probably because he’s never read any of the Harry Potter books. “Sorry,” I explain. “It’s just that I’m pretty sure you just bought something made up by sorcerers. Were they all out of magic beans?”
“It’s not magic. It’s just ground-up shells,” Victor says. “Scorpions really hate it, apparently.”
“Ah,” I say. “Well, that explains why you never see scorpions vacationing by the seaside.”