Top 5 Things You’ll Learn If You Read This Whole Thing:
- I stopped a Wienermobile from killing my wife.
- No, Kristi, a rabid bobcat does not sound like a cat.
- Lion Kinging what was seconds before killing your wife is kinda cool.
- Ants have feelings.
- I’m a bad husband
As longtime readers of good ol’ Q.F and The Crazy Life surely remember, I once saved my wife, Flaca, from being mowed down by a runaway Oscar Meyer Wienermobile.
For newbies, a recap: I threw a large stick knocked off a tree by lightning the night before through the Wienermobile’s domed roof to knock the unconscious driver off the steering wheel and send it careening into Hellhole Canyon after said driver died from an undiagnosed case of Ebola back in 2003. No big deal.
I bring this up not to brag, but rather to say this: I love my wife. Immensely. I’m just not sure I love her this much.
Let’s walk through what we just watched.
Kristi Wade was headed to the car — what appears to be a very sensible minivan or SUV — to go do whatever it is people in Pender County, North Carolina do on a pleasant if somewhat chilly morning. When what to our wondering eyes should appear but a rabid bobcat leaping onto her back and sinking its claws and teeth into her flesh.
I have had many things happen to me on the way to my car. Being victimized by a rabid bobcat is not one of them.
Kristi says she was quite sure of what was happening to her:: “I knew it was a cat because I know what a cat sounds like,” she said.
I, too, know what a cat sounds like and, Kristi, that does not sound like a cat. That sounds like a demon from the seventh layer of hell. But you were there, so I’ll defer.
What happens next is absolutely batshit crazy.
Kristi’s husband, who happens to go by the name Happy, runs over to his wife, dislodges the bobcat from her back… Lion Kings it (!!!!) …
… and then hurls it across his lawn like he’s John Freaking Elway in Super Bowl XXII (Side Note: Can we stop the whole Roman numerals thing? I think we can assume the Roman Empire ain’t coming back to enforce its counting system.).
Still not satisfied that he had extracted his pound of flesh from what I’m sure is a bobcat that is starting to have regrets, Happy pulls out a gun and starts chasing the thing around the yard. And we are told, Happy was successful in his mission to enter Marty McFly “Hey you! Get your damn paws off her!” beast mode and actually tracked and killed the thing.
Ho.Ly.Shit that was impressive.
The thing is, Happy doesn’t appear to think about tearing a rabid bobcat off his wife. He just does it. Instinctually. Kind of like a rabid bobcat will instinctively jump on your back sometimes.
I’ve thought for many days now about my love for Flaca, how deep it truly is, how I’ve demonstrated that before in The Wienermobile Incident. But if I’m being honest — and Flaca, I’m sorry — I’m quite sure my instinct should I ever see a rabid animal attached to my wife’s back would be more about starting to think how it’s going to be for me and our kids without their mom and less about what I can do to intervene in the grand plans of nature.
I blame this on Hippy Mom, she of the butt-length wavy blond hair and constant wearer of culturally appropriated moccasins. Throughout my homeschool education on the commune, she consistently reinforced the belief that animals and humans are one. Like, cosmically and eternally One.
One day when I was 5, I accompanied Hippy Mom on the 7-mile trek from the commune to the local general store to stock up on winter food. It was a happy time. Until Hippy Mom tackled me into the dirt just off the sidewalk.
“Jesus Christ, Mom! Whadidya do that for?” I screamed when the air returned to my lungs three minutes later.
Hippy Mom grabbed me by the arm and stood me up, then, apparently confused as to what state of verticality she wanted me in, forced me to my knees again to look very closely at the sidewalk. “Do you see that, Queso? Do you see that? That is an ant. And ant’s have feelings. They are a part of Mother Earth. We can’t walk around carelessly thinking our footsteps don’t matter. They do. And you should never forget that.”
And despite years of therapy and successful integration into non-commune life, I guess I never did.
Which is why I can say with relative certainty that I would not be instinctually running toward a bobcat attacking my wife like Brave Happy Wade. At best, I can hope that I would stand there as a neutral observer watching the circle of life unfold before me.
I love you Flaca. I do. And I’m sorry. Just know that if another Wienermobile comes careening toward you, I’m all over it.
Q.F. Conseco is the relative of website owner and Storyteller in Chief John Agliata. He is, in fact, John’s great-grandparent’s son’s son’s son. He lives outside Escandido, California, near the Hellhole Canyon Preserve with his wife, Flaca, and their three children, Franz, Hans and Helga. All three are homeschooled and extremely unsocial. Q.F. is a singer, songwriter and poet when he is not working as a trimmer for a large medical marijuana growing operation in Humboldt County, California. He does not own a cat.
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