Animal Addicts Anonymous

Yesterday at lunch, a friend related one of the funniest stories I’ve heard in a long time. Her friend, who we’ll call Liz, was planning a party, and in preparation, she went to the liquor store and purchased several bottles of wine. She stored them in a cool part of her basement.

Several days later, Liz noticed a foul odor in her garage. After an intense search, she discovered the source of the odor. A raccoon had found a way to gain access to her basement through the garage and got his little raccoon paws on the wine. The clever little critter had broken the bottles and consumed the wine. She found him lying on his back in a drunken stupor. His eyes were rolled back, and he wore the grin of a happy drunk on a high. But still, what was causing the odor?

The raccoon simultaneously farted and belched, and Liz had her answer.

She called animal control. To the woman who answered, she said, “I’m sure this is going to be the strangest call you’ve ever received, but I have a drunken raccoon in my basement.”

The woman at animal control laughed uncontrollably and then admitted that, yes, it was probably the strangest call they had ever received. An agent was dispatched immediately to rescue the ripped raccoon.

Several agents actually arrived at her home, all eager to witness the spectacle. As they put the sloshed little stinker in the truck, someone remarked, “This is really bad. This guy isn’t going to be able to function in the wild for a while. He’s going to have to be rehabilitated so he can re-learn the skill of foraging for food."

Did you get that? The drunken little bastard had to go to raccoon rehab.

Can you imagine the scene at that joint?

ANIMAL REHAB

Counselor (a wise old owl): This meeting of Animal Addicts Anonymous will come to order. We’ll begin by going around the room, stating our first name and last initial and the nature of our addiction.

Wolf: Hi. I’m Phil U., and I’m a sex addict. The nature of my addiction has been such that I have illicit sex with – well, let’s just say I’ve been with some who aren’t my kind. In particular, three goats, a pig, and a foxy little vixen who . . .

Owl Counselor, loudly clearing throat: Um, I think that will suffice, Phil. Who’s next?

Python: (Shyly). Hi, I’m Rosie O.

All: Hi, Rosie.

Python: I have an eating disorder. My problem is ssssswallowing my victims. I get them down, but then when I ssssee the big bulge in my belly, I just get ssssso upsssset that I regurgitate them.

Wolf: Hehe. I guess you could say she ssssspits, not ssssswallows.

Owl: Phil, if we have another inappropriate comment from you, I’ll have to ask you to leave. Thanks for sharing that painful truth, Rosie. Next we have . . .

Dachshund: Hi, everyone. I’m Sigmund F., and I have the opposite problem from Rosie over there. I eat anything I see. I think I’ve finally hit rock bottom, because I was ordered to rehab after my owners caught me eating my own shit.

All except Owl: Ewwwwww!

Owl: Now, everyone, we need to remember that shame is what keeps us in our addictions. Siggy – can I call you Siggy? -- is admitting some pretty harsh realities to us, but we need to remember the old adage, “There but for the grace of God and the dogcatcher go I.”

Dachshund: Thanks for that, Owl. Anyway, this is my last chance. If I do it again, I’m going straight to the pound.

Raccoon: Hi. I’m Ricky, and I broke into a lady’s house, stole some wine, and got drunk as a skunk.

Skunk, tail in air: Hey, pal, that’s uncalled for! I oughta come over there and . . .

Owl: Sal, remember your anger management skills. Spraying someone because of a perceived insult only reinforces the powerful hold your temper has had over you.

Skunk, lowering tail: Sorry, Sigmund. I lost my tail for a minute. By the way, everyone, I’m Sal, and if you haven’t already guessed, I was ordered to anger management classes after an unfortunate incident. And actually, it involved a dachshund. Not Siggy over there. Another dachshund.

Dachshund: Let me guess. He thought you were a squirrel. We dogs are color blind, and you skunks do kind of resemble squirrels, who are the bane of our existence. Boy, what I would do to catch a squirrel. I’d tear it limb from limb and then eat . . .

Owl: Ahem! Let’s move on. Step Two of the Twelve Steps states, “We came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.” Would anyone like to share with the group what serves as their higher power?

Dachshund: The dog catcher?

Counselor: I can see that. Anyone else?

Raccoon: For me, I guess it's Animal Control. All I can think about is that sweet nectar in that woman's basement, but if they catch me drinking again, I'll never get back to the woods.

Wolf: Pamela Anderson does it for me.

Counselor: Okay, Phil. That’s it. I need to ask you to leave.

Wolf: Whaaaaat? I’m not trying to be funny here. My therapist told me that a higher power is whatever gives you a radical reason to change. I hung a poster of Pamela in my den, and everytime I’m tempted to go after some fox or a coy little kitty, I look at Pamela and tell myself, “Hold out for the big prize, Phil.” It works for me.

Counselor, hanging head in defeat: Our time is up. Let’s stand and join paws. Rosie, just wrap yourself around Phil, why don't you? Let's repeat the Serenity Prayer for Animals.

All: “God, give me the serenity to scavenge the things I cannot stalk, to courage to stalk the stuff I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

Drowning My Soggy Basement Sorrows

In short, this has been the week from hell. I guess when you see a rattlesnake the size of a fire hose on Sunday, it’s possibly some kind of omen that later in the week men are going to be using extraction machines attached to fire hoses to suck the four-inch-deep water-swamp out of your basement. And that I’m going to have to act like a rattlesnake from hell with the insurance adjustor who can’t understand why the hardwood floors must be replaced. Because they’re buckling into six-inch-high teepees that trip me, dumbass? And that I might have problems with other long, hose-like objects later in the week, like maybe gas pumps that should have been replaced before I drove off from the gas station.

So I briefly – very briefly – considered getting myself drunk tonight. I kind of earned it. The house I was supposed to put on the market this week has over $50,000 worth of damage to it, and that’s not counting the furniture, exercise equipment, and stored items that are ruined. As a matter of fact, one of the few items that suffered no damage was the empty aquarium that was once home to a ball python, Hunter’s pet that escaped several years ago and was never found.

But getting drunk is not the answer to my problems, because although I’ve only been really drunk three times in my life, each time it did not end prettily. One of those times occurred while my whole family was in St. Augustine. My poor sister-in-law had to put my drunken ass (or “ash,” as I pronounce it when I’m drunk) to bed. I woke up in the middle of the night very, very thirsty. I tiptoed downstairs and was greedily chugging a liter of Pellegrino when I noticed a cat on my front porch eating from the dish I set out for Degas, the Siamese across the street who spends most of every day going door to door begging for food. Only it wasn’t Degas at the dish. I made my way over to the front door and watched the kitty eat. I wanted to go outside and pet the pretty kitty, but even in my semi-inebriated state, I remembered that opening the door would cause the alarm to beep, and I didn’t want to waken the entire household. So I stood and watched the cat eat while I finished my Pellegrino.

The next morning, I made my way downstairs in time to meet my family for breakfast at eight o’clock, proud of the fact I was not in the least bit hungover. Plus, I pointed out to my brother and niece, at two o’clock that morning, I’d even had the presence of mind not to open the front door and pet the kitty because I hadn’t wanted to wake them.

“What cat? Degas?” Beau asked.

“No. It was a different one. I’d never seen it before, but it was a really pretty kitty,” I said. “It was grey, and it had these cool black rings around its tail.”

After my brother picked himself up off the floor, he explained to me that the “pretty kitty” was, in fact, a raccoon who probably carried rabies – the ultimate in tainted pussies.

So on this night, when I probably have every reason in the world to drown my soggy basement sorrows, I will not drink. Because as sure as I do, some creature from Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom will show up at my house. And with the way my week’s been going, it will be that long-lost ball python, now the size of a fire hose and hungry enough to eat a dachshund.