slip!

A few days back, I was taking out the trash.  There’s a beaten path I follow around the side of the house to the trashcans, a path that has been trodden upon by other trash taker-outers since the house was built in 1960.  A very well worn path.  Often I don’t even throw on shoes for my trash taking-out adventures.  However, the gods of Sacred Soles were looking out for my precious soles (yes, we have two soles) this particular afternoon and I had thrown on a pair of surprisingly comfortable flip-flops (i’m not a flip-flop fan…another post for another day).

So, doo-dee-doo, there I go around the house with a bag of stinky trash in hand.  Deposit said bag in aforementioned trashcan.  I turn and am on my way back around the house, keeping my eyes peeled for my trio of kids who always run helter skelter in opposite directions.  I’m scanning the perimeter for a quick visual body count, One, two, three, all in view, when

slip!

I slip ever so slightly on something.  It was the tiniest slip of slips.  In fact, so microscopic that I would have never even noticed in my usual clodhopper shoes of choice (flip-flop/clodhopper footwear post in the mental works).  But, those thin surprisingly comfortable flip-flops yield very little distance between my precious soles and the ground.  So yeah, slip! I figure I must have slip!ped on a slug.  The end room of my house undergoes a nightly invasion by the slug army.  (anti-slug tips much appreciated)  The trash is on the end room side of the house, hence my (very, very wrong) assumption that I had just slip!ped on a slug.  (i am now channeling dr. seuss)

I slipped on a slug in my curiously thin slippers.

Only, the slip! was not on a slug.  No, it was no slug at all.

It was a sight to terrify and appall.

I slipped on a chipmunk head.

(i sort of want to end the post right there)

I looked down, fully expecting to see slug guts.  Instead, this sleepy eyed creature greeted me.  Click only if a decapitated Chip (or Dale tail) won’t keep you up nights on end.  For the big picture gore enthusiasts, here’s the full shot.  And, if seeing a mutilated chipmunk is not in your bag of tricks, congratulations on your mental wellness.

That teeny weeny slip! I felt was a chipmunk’s wee furry head.  slip! It’s days later and I can still feel that slip!ping sensation.  So minuscule and barely noticeable.  slip! If I had been wearing my usual clunky shoes, I bet I could have bypassed this entire heebie-jeebie assault.  However, if I had been barefoot, I’m sure I would have amputated my own foot by now due to an overwhelming case of heebie-jeebie-itis.  Can you imagine stepping on a chipmunk head with your bare sole?  Aww yeah, you’re getting a heebie-jeebie attack yourself now, aren’t you?  There’s no vaccination for that, by the way.

I reason that I surprised a neighborhood cat mid-afternoon snacking.  The chipmunk parts were deli fresh.  Chip could have still been blinking, unaware the bulk of his midsection was currently working its way through someone else’s digestive tract.  A head, tail, liver, and stomach were all that remained.  I can’t imagine four prickly feet being more delectable than some newly prepared chipmunk haggis.  But, there it was.  If you ever find yourself wondering the order in which to devour a chipmunk, it’s feet first.

You know I couldn't resist.