This is the story of The Night Before Thanksgiving 2005.
When I tell this story, I can see people squirming with disbelief.
My big kids were with other family, and my husband was away at Ft. Knox, so I have no adult witnesses.
While reading this story, it would serve you well to remember that truth is stranger than fiction.
First of all, you should know that Sassy, my Giantesse, was a size 5/6 on her third birthday, and therefore, she didn’t sleep in a crib, but rather on a toddler bed next to her baby sister’s crib.
(Her baby sister, in contrast, could have slept in a crib until about eight years of age, but that’s irrelevant, isn’t it?)
So it came as a bit of a surprise, but not too much, when at two in the morning, I awoke to the sound of shenanigans in the bathroom.
I found Sassy standing atop the step-stool at the vanity, cracking eggs into the sink.
She’d planned to make some “cambled eggs,” which is why she had been whisking them with a hairbrush.
I cleaned up and took her to my bed.
“We crack eggs in a bowl. In the kitchen. In the MORNING.”
At four in the morning, I heard a clattering, thundering catastrophe in the laundry room, so I went to investigate. I was scared to death. I slipped my phone into my robe and took The Mister’s baseball bat.
Nothing could prepare me for the sight.
A raccoon had squeezed through my dryer vent, shredded it quite a bit, landed on the shelf above the dryer, which knocked over the cat food container. Kitty kibble everywhere. Raccoon in my laundry room. My cat was strutting, growling, and hissing, encircling the raccoon like prey. Her fur was puffed up, her tail twice its size.
I should have worn shoes.
I put the baseball bat on the dryer, and climbed up beside it. For awhile, I just couldn’t function. There on the dryer, my eyes wide with fear, I developed a plan. I would run upstairs, get the broom, open the door, and chase that raccoon right out the door. Or, if I failed, I would call Animal Control.
I ran upstairs as fast as I could and fetched the broom.
A new calamity arose. Along the wall between the stairs and the kitchen, I heard scratching and some screechy, whiny noises. Thumping. The battle was following me!
I didn’t want to be attacked by the raccoon To keep the animals out of the kitchen, I closed the Dutch door. Alright, I slammed the Dutch door and screamed a little. When my cat got to the landing, I climbed up on that Dutch door, my foot propped up by the stove, I lunged my torso into the landing and opened the back door. I was amazing!
But my cat was SuperCat, and she chased that raccoon out of the house.
By the time I had the cat food all cleaned up, she’d begun to scratch at the door.
I do not know if she killed the raccoon, but she had been known to kill birds, mice, possums, and even a chicken hawk.
She was a fierce hunter.
Needless to say, I was exhausted at Thanksgiving dinner the following day.