So, to set the scene...
anyone that knows me knows that rodents are one of my least favorite things in all of the world. You also know that it gets me mad when people don't say hi to me, which is one of the reasons I don't like my neighborhood so much. You also know that if I don't like something, it's usually conveyed in some way. Facial expression, appropriate noise, or a comment, perhaps.
Last night, I decide to take my crazy, rotten dogs for a walk, after we arrive home and before it gets dark. After about two minutes of Amadeus doing 360s in the air, and Georgia doing laps around the yard, I get them to sit and get their leashes on.
Walking "around the block," which is not really around the block, but is what I call our walk, typically takes about 15 minutes and I usually take both dogs separately because 100 pounds of fur pulling me, no matter how cute they are, is just too much to handle for me. But for some reason, seems like a good idea to take them both.
On the last leg of the walk, a skinny little man with no shirt on asks me if the dogs are hungry. "Sure, I guess," I say, walking onto his lawn toward his grill, with much apprehension because Amadeus has a tendency to howl at strangers and Georgia loves to lick their nose. Plus, what if he kidnaps me. But hey, he seems friendly and no one ever talks to me in this neighborhood so I have to take advantage of it.
So, he's about to give them some of his grilled food but he tells me it's too hot, leaves me outside and comes back with a plate of cat food, a knife, and his wife.
Feeds the dogs sausages, mixed in with the cat food, straight from the grill. Offers me nothing, too bad, I totally would have eaten one, they looked good.
So, I thank him, we go on our way, about a block closer to home, I'm looking down at my phone, and of course the dogs are stopping and walking and sniffing. They are stopped for a moment too long, I look up and see them sniffing a DEAD RAT. I scream and pull them away and cross the road.
Can't run because I have on new shoes that aren't totally broken in yet and are giving me big angry, red blisters.
Limp home, totally skeebed out about the rat. John is in the driveway, and I tell him what happened. He looks down at my feet and says "Oh my gosh," of course, I somehow irrationally decide that the rat or part of the rat is on my sneaker. Screaming commences, shoes fly off, I'm yelling "what is it, what is it?!"
Turns out he's just commenting on the blister.