These Animals Are Killing Me: A Year of Ridiculous Interruptions - Courtesy of Pesky Wildlife, Quirky Pets and Two-Legged Mammals

By Katrina Morgan

Readers are invited to follow a typical, pulled-in-a-hundred-different-directions family through a year of hysterical and true-life interruptions. Their beloved pets create more havoc and chaos than deserved; a daring rescue across an icy pond as the ice cracks and the cold seeps through, harrowing trips to the veterinarian in which the protagonist arrives in worse shape than the animals, a ruined floor, and dead mice offerings. Add in pesky wildlife--a pig who helps hang Christmas lights, a brave mouse who takes up residence under the cat’s bowl, coyote howling next to an occupied hot tub, and a skunk who rudely interrupts a romantic interlude, and readers will be laughing and shaking their heads in incredulous disbelief. When main character, Katrina, has finally had enough, she stands with hands on hips and shouts, “These animals are killing me!” Readers will understand completely.

The fast paced incidents will be most recognizable to adults who juggle and multi-task on a daily basis. The universal draw of animals adds a unique dimension. There are triumphs, surprises, failures and disappointments all told with twisted humor. At the end of each episode, small windows of clarity occur, in which the world rights itself momentarily and we remember what is important, what is right, what is good.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781682228982

Katrina Morgan

The author lives in Westfield Center, Ohio with husband, John. They are blessed that their three children, Deanna, Michael and Spencer live, work and go to school nearby. The author keeps herself busy working within the community, writing two additional books, flipping houses with husband John and volunteering as often as she is able. She is often asked to speak to groups, sharing her humor and inspiring others to preserve despite the obstacles placed along our paths. Katrina's love of teaching allows her to deliver interactive writing classes through local libraries, High Schools and sometimes, just for fun, in and around the community. Other books by Katrina Morgan: These Animals Are Killing Me Follow on:

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2011.

September 2nd: Stalking the School Bus

Oh my God! Stop it!

I leaned over and yanked his pants up, covering his naked little butt. The need to reprimand warred with the need to laugh, and I bit my tongue. Hard. Spencer, my youngest and overly dramatic child was standing with me on the front porch. We were supposed to be waving goodbye to his older brother, standing as witnesses to his growing up and going to middle school.

It all went terribly wrong.

The day had started as all first days of school start: chaotic, frantic, and nerve-wracking. Michael, anxious about the new school and suddenly being the lowest on the totem pole, had been full of angst. Do I look alright? I feel like a geek.

I understood. We’d carefully shopped for the correct clothing and shoes, and bought a cool new book bag along with all the middle school essentials. Still, he was apprehensive. I stopped packing his lunch and paid attention. I took in his appearance, flattened his stubborn cowlick and assured him, You look great! No worries, I promise. I gave him a squeeze and went back to shoving the oversized sandwich into a zip-lock bag." Bear, the dog, and Fat Cat Chance twined between my legs hoping something would drop to the old wooden floor.

I nudged them both aside, and asked the required questions: Did you get all your supplies? Do you have milk money?

After he muttered his responses, I grabbed the camera to mark the occasion. Stand over there by the fireplace so I can take your picture. I smiled as a good example.

Moomm, this is stupid. He groaned even while moving toward the tiny kitchen hearth.

No, it’s not. You’ll be glad to have these pictures someday.

Why Moms say such things eludes me. It ranks right up there with There are starving children in Africa. Something happens during childbirth creating the need to spew these ridiculous statements. We can’t help ourselves.

No, I won’t. I heard Michael mutter. I clicked away, acting like I didn’t notice and effectively captured what was surely the first of hundreds of eye rolls aimed in my direction.

Smile! I yelled once more, hoping for a better snapshot. Spencer, my youngest, stood behind me making faces at his brother.

The foray into the middle school universe was a huge step toward becoming a young man and Michael was adamant about not being walked to the end of the driveway. I’m not a baby.

I nodded and tried not to cry. Spencer and I had stationed ourselves on the old porch instead. It was the best compromise I could give. Bear and Fat Cat Chance nosed their way out the crooked screen door, curious as to why we were on the porch. They sat flanking us hoping something fascinating would take place.

Michael stood at the end of the driveway trying to look grown up and aloof. It came across painfully. My tears threatened as the bus shuddered to a stop and the doors swung open.

I waved and smiled. I admit to being momentarily confused by all the other kids pointing out the bus window and laughing. Spencer had opted to send Michael off in style. The little cretin had dropped his pants and was mooning the school bus, shaking his booty and giggling.

Oh My God!

At my exuberant and fairly loud outburst, Fat Cat Chance jumped into the bushes, Bear started barking his fool head off, and Spencer grinned mischievously. Michael sunk low in his bus seat, pretending he had no idea who we were, or how we’d ended up on his porch. The envisioned illustrious start to Michael’s new adventure was not going as planned. There’s nothing quite like a sibling to put you in your place.

But that was yesterday. Today it’s Spencer’s turn for new undertakings. Putting your youngest child onto a bus for the first time may not be as dramatic as it was with the first or even second child, but it still generates anxiety and sentimental ruminations. I know there are plenty of mothers out there who will appreciate the fact I spent forty minutes stalking the school bus up and down country roads until it reached its final destination. I have no problem admitting I may have gotten a bit carried away.

At six, my youngest was eagerly looking forward to his first full day at school. Last year, he rode the bus to kindergarten with his older brother. I didn’t worry as much, even though Michael feigned complete contempt, picking on the younger version of himself mercilessly and never missing an opportunity to shatter any glimmers of confidence, I still knew he’d look after his little brother.

This year, however, with Michael’s move to middle school, Spencer would be on his own. Michael started an hour earlier which required a separate bus schedule. Ever the follower of what Michael does, Spencer announced, I’ll go to wait for the bus by myself!

Nope. Not happenin’ yet, little man. Your turn will come.

We marched out to the end of the driveway, with me taking more pictures and Spencer making goofy faces and refusing to stand still. I acted as though everything was normal, overly emphasizing the fabulous and fun. This is great!

I was worried though. The solitary traveler on the bus situation was enough to make anyone nervous. Complicated, in part, by where we live. Our school district is large, incorporating six small, country towns spread across a 120-mile radius. Spencer wouldn’t only have to ride the bus on his own, but would need to successfully transfer onto a different bus at one of the schools. The second bus would complete his journey to his new elementary building another town away. Although I wanted him to learn the process, and not be dependent on me to get safely to and from school, the process was concerning: What if he didn’t get off the bus like he was supposed to? What if he got on the wrong transfer bus and ended up at the wrong school? Would there really be teachers in place to make sure everyone was taken care of, as they’d promised?

We’d gone over it a million times, driven the route and I’d explained to him over and over how he would get off one bus here and it would take him to his new school there. We practiced and, although he was only six years old, he was already rolling his eyes. He was so damn independent, had no fear and exercised his own mind and twisted sense of humor. I would have probably felt better if he had shown some reluctance. At least then I would know he was paying attention.

The bus shuddered to a stop, the brakes squealing. Spencer grinned, turned around to wave one last time. He crossed the street and boarded the bus. I watched him say hello to his new bus driver, find a seat and happily begin talking to other kids around him. I stood there for a few seconds, waving. As the driver pulled away, I was off like a shot, racing to my car, slamming it into drive and racing to catch up with the bus. I followed it to the first school, keeping my distance so as not to attract attention. I pulled into the parking lot, ready to watch the transfer process. The bus in question didn’t stop in the circle to let the transfer children disembark. Instead, she picked up speed and exited the parking lot.

What the hell?

I put my car in drive, jockeyed my way through a crowded bus circle, squeezed by other parents in their cars, tried not to run over any children and followed as closely as possible.

The bus retraced its route, and crossed the highway. I crossed the highway too. She drove slowly, hesitated and turned left. I did the same. She finally stopped at a house a mile or so past where we live. Two kids were huddled together at the end of their driveway, scared they’d been forgotten. Which they had been. If called upon, I could testify as an eyewitness.

Poor driver. It was bad enough she was new to the job, stressed with the responsibility of transporting all those small children, and now she had already made a mistake. To have some lunatic mother following her around taking note of such things made a bad and embarrassing situation worse. But there was nothing to do about it, but continue my reconnaissance mission.

The bus and I crossed the highway again in our second attempt to get these children safely to school. We were partners now. I wasn’t even trying to be stealthy anymore. It was almost nine o’clock; we were late and just knew the transfer was going to be a disaster. The bus to take Spencer to school number two had probably already come and gone. I was congratulating myself on being there for my son.

There was no room for me to pull into the circle at school. It was jammed with buses, all of which appeared to have been late, which may or may not have been a worrisome thing. I wondered how many children were still standing at the ends of driveways, forgotten and secretly relieved they might not have to go to school after all.

I pulled into the post office, situated diagonally from the school. It afforded me an unobstructed view of the bus circle. Parents and teachers were running haphazardly from one bus to another, trying to determine everyone’s name and age, and to which damned school the kids were assigned. I waved to several suspicious postal workers who were looking out the window and probably wondering why I was blocking the entrance to their building.

I must have blinked or turned away momentarily because I never actually saw Spencer. Hmm. I considered walking over to the school fence for a better view, but a police car cruised by, and I decided to act responsibly, and not draw further attention to myself as some sort of child predator. I could only hope Spencer was on the correct bus and headed to the correct school. I worried and chewed a fingernail. Three buses left the building, turning south toward the third and fourth grade school. The driver I’d been following all morning made eye contact with me as she was pulling away from the school. She was on her CB radio, and I suspected she was phoning in my license plate due to my fishy behavior.

My driver and two other buses left the parking lot; turning north toward what would be Spencer’s primary building. The current playground was empty, and the bell rang, announcing the start of the day. I could have gone home, as all children seemed to be accounted for, but I had to know.

I headed north too. We all arrived safely at school number two. Throwing caution to the wind, I parked and stood by the playground. I needed to see my baby. The buses unloaded a sea of brightly dressed children, who milled around on the playground while teachers yelled into bullhorns, instructing these aimless youngsters where to go. Finally, I spied Spencer, oblivious to the ridiculous activities of his mother. He swung his shiny backpack in circles and was chatting nonstop with several other boys. He’d made friends and survived the ordeal much better than I had.

Satisfied things were going to be all right, I headed home, taking a back road toward our house. I was looking forward to relaxing with a cup of coffee. Surprisingly, I came upon a bus trying to back its big yellow self into a driveway on our road. Wouldn’t you know it? It was the same bus driver I’d been following for the last forty minutes. As it turned out she lived only two miles away from us.

She saw me, recognized the car and waved me toward her driveway.

Great.

I parked and sheepishly trudged toward the bus. Facing a figure of school authority, I automatically fell into chagrined child mode. Mounting the bus steps slowly, unsure what my punishment would be, I peeked at her through my bangs.

Shaking her head and smiling, she started the conversation: We’ve spent an awful lot of time together this morning. We should probably be on a first name basis, don’t you think? She extended her hand. I’m Sue. She threw her head back and actually laughed.

Manners kicked in and I accepted her hand, the silent forgiveness. I considered giving an alternate name, but realized I’d be seeing her daily and that my lie would be short lived. What a mess, huh?

Later, coffee cup in hand, I decided she could be trusted with my son after all. She’d shown more grace under fire, had more aplomb when dealing with obstacles, and certainly more maturity than I had. It looked like I wasn’t the only one in my house who needed some higher education.

September 22nd: Let Me Out Of Here!

The adage truth is stranger than fiction is certainly true. Well, at least if not stranger than fiction, certainly more entertaining. Who knew my annual trip to the ob/gyn could ever be fun, or even amusing? But damned if my last visit didn’t leave me giggling and laughing for days afterwards. It was one of the more outlandish things to ever happen to me. Perhaps such a proclamation sounds overly dramatic; I’m known to take things a bit over the top. But this time I’m not exaggerating. Really. There are some things a person just can’t fabricate.

The morning didn’t start off funny. I’d been dreading it as only a woman headed to her annual female exam can. I stalled, petting Fat Chance the cat, throwing a tattered ball to our dog, Bear. Unable to push it aside any longer, I drove along, in no hurry to get there early. I arrived on time anyway. I trudged through the parking lot, signed in at the little office window and took my seat, already praying I wouldn’t have to wait long. It’s bad enough knowing what’s about to happen. Having to think about it over a long period of time just adds insult to injury. Unfortunately, ob/gyn’s are historically late. They offer excuses such as having to deliver babies or some such nonsense.

In the past, I’ve waited over an hour for such an exam. It just seems to come with the territory. I’d come prepared though and had paperwork to do, email to catch up with, and a book in case the wait turned especially lengthy. I laid claim to two chairs. I spread out papers, opened my phone to read my email, and got ready to get some work done. Over the years, I’ve discovered the two chair ruse prevented awkward attempts at conversation in the waiting room.

It’s alright, even acceptable to make eye contact, say Hello. I’ve had instances though when complete strangers begin to discuss all sorts of things: politics, weather, and their own ailments. It’s uncomfortable, and not something I’m interested in while waiting for a very personal exam, so another thing I’ve learned: If you look busy, people assume you are busy and are less apt to interrupt. I organized my mail and paperwork, and was ready to get some things done. So it was a surprise to hear my name called immediately. I shuffled my papers back together, chucked my phone in my purse and followed the nurse.

I was ushered into the mysterious area behind the waiting room--the one they take you to in a pretense you’ll be seeing the doctor soon. I was weighed in on the scale, had my blood pressure checked, my temperature taken, and was asked a hundred or so questions about my medical history. Someday I would really love an explanation as to why my ob-gyn needed to know about my cholesterol or my history of broken bones. The bone question actually took me several minutes to answer thanks to my lack of grace.

Of all the seemingly useless question, it’s this one that really gets me: Does your family have a history of Sickle-Cell Anemia? Being Caucasian, I find this question irritating. Hello, please look at me when you ask this question! Do you notice the strawberry blond hair, blue eyes, and fair complexion? Jeez! Sickle Cell Anemia is a very serious disease. It is extremely rare--as in non-existent--among Caucasian women. But I digress; it’s easy to do. With doctor’s visits being so invasive, I get nervous.

The aide eventually escorted me into a tiny examination room without so much as a piece of art on the walls. She issued the standard instructions: Put on the gown, opening to the front.

I nodded, and she left, closing the door firmly behind her. I undressed faster than normally possible and hustled into my little white paper towel. It’s important to hurry because the doctor may walk in and see me. Which, really, when you think of it, is a pretty silly thing to worry about considering he or she is about to see every square inch of me, inside and out. I folded my clothes and plopped my purse on top like a paperweight. Heaven forbid anything shifted, allowing the doctor to see my panties or bra.

I sat on the table and looked around, trying to get comfortable and crinkling my ridiculous paper gown. Opening to the front, I repeated in a first-grade teacher tone, just to hear a voice and fill the anxious silence They should at least give patients a belt or something.

I squirmed, not sure what to do with the time. I tried to keep my gown closed. I moved around on the table covered with still more paper. I shifted left, right, forward and back. By wrinkling all the paper at the end of the table, there would be no recognizable impression of my derriere when I get up to get dressed and escape. Another one of those things I’ve learned the hard way.

There had been a sign in the waiting room instructing, Please do not remove magazines from this area, so I had nothing to look at except instruments, posters on how to do a self-breast exam, and the different stages of pregnancy. I thought about grabbing my book but knew as soon as I hopped off the table, the doctor would come in and I’d be exposed.

I considered sneaking over to the cabinets and drawers just to have a quick look inside. We all wonder, don’t we? What’s in that cabinet? That drawer? Is it really locked? It’s a natural curiosity, and one I admit to giving in to on occasion. I’d just about decided to get off the table when I heard the discreet knock on the door, indicating the doctor was about to walk inside. I scooched back on to the table and tried to look innocent. It’s hard to look casual and unassuming while sitting naked on an examination table. He entered, with the mandatory nurse at his side. Walking over to the table, he extended his arm, offering to shake hands. I found this weird. However, manners are deeply ingrained, so