Scott the Weasel Pig
This post was originally a part of the now defunct Somnaplegic blog.
A large portion of my dreams take place in my childhood home which was a three bedroom ranch house with a 4 car garage. The house was on a much larger lot than any of the houses on the block, which was a good thing, because that extra field space was a buffer between our house and the highway our isolated cul de sac was attached to. This was good not only for sound reasons, but also because it provided extra distance I’d have to slog before getting crushed by a fast moving vehicle when my reptile brain decided to go for a midnight stroll dead asleep [1].
The house also sported fairly large landscaped front and back yards in addition to the definitely NOT landscaped area to the side that we referred to as “the lot.” Over time, my family made a number of improvements and changes to the house and the yards. Sometimes in my dreams different eras of the house will merge. The living room will feature a large hearth and fire place while my parents’ bedroom will be in the garage, two things that didn’t actually exist at the same time. Or maybe they did? But I’m dead certain there was never a bathroom in the middle of living room. Really certain of that.
So I’m back in my old bedroom, the former master bedroom, trying to figure out where my car keys are, because I live 2 hours away, but I’m a teenager again, so I don’t, but I’m sure I really need to find my keys. I look around and I realize, “Hey, this place is falling apart!” There are holes in the drywall and rodents scurrying around all in the walls and spilling out onto the floor.
I head down the hall to find my mom. We need to get this whole crumbling infrastructure/rodent situation under control. At a minimum, we need to head to the Diamond and get some drywall to patch all these holes, which I can now see are not just in my room, but all over the house.
My mom’s in the kitchen making a cheese sandwich. The place is a mess and the horrible 70’s countertops and appliances we replaced in the 90s are all back.
“Hey, mom. The house is full of holes and rodents!”
“I’m making a sandwich.”
“Yeah, but there are rat droppings everywhere. We should go to the home improvement store and get some drywall and maybe some rodent traps.”
So, at this point you’re probably thinking to yourself, “Hey, this is a repulsive nightmare! Why isn’t she running screaming from the house of horrors. Rats. RATS!”
Here’s the thing. I like rats. Mice are OK, but rats are the bomb. Seriously, rats are super fun easy to care for pets with adorable little noses and whiskers and little round ears. They’re great for little kids because they’re chill and hardly ever bite, even if you accidently squeeze them too hard. You can teach them cool tricks. If they weren’t so stinky (they’re very clean, but their urine is pungent and lingers even with daily cage cleanings) I would have rats as pets ALL THE TIME.
All that is to say, to me a house full of rats ain’t no thang. I’m just trying to figure out if I can capture and rehome all these little blighters.
Mom on the other hand is being a first class petulant teenager with a clear case of the “I don’t wannas.”
I’m trying to get her to help me find my keys so we can start DOING ALL THE THINGS, when I notice that the holes in the kitchen wall shared with the living room are revealing a small bathroom on the other side. I’m pondering what the heck a bathroom is doing in the living room when an enormous spider scuttles into view inside the bathroom.
“Mom! Mom!”
“What?”
“There’s giant mint green spider in this bathroom!”
“Yeah, so?”
“I need you to deal with it. It’s feakin’ me out!”
“You’re overreacting.”
“No, no, I need you to deal with the giant f#$@ing SPIDER in the bathroom.”
I’ve been trying to keep the fuzzy green spider in sight while yelling at mom, because the only thing worse than seeing a spider is seeing a spider and then NOT seeing a spider.
Mom skulks off to the garage with her cheese sandwich.
“Dammit woman, the infrastructure is crumbling, there are rodents everywhere, and now I’ve lost sight of the spider!”
“Problem solved.”
“AAAAAAAHHHH!”
So I hustle back to the spare room (my old-old room) fairly certain my keys are in there. In the spare room is a queen sized waterbed with leather padded rails [2]. On the edge of the bed are my keys and all around the room on ledges and dressers and night stands are terrarium style cages.
Suddenly, I remember! I was looking after a LOT of rodents in this room, for a while. But I forgot about them. The cages are murky and look like they’re full of mold. Inside one, I see vague movement that looks like some sort of crab-face-grabber-not-good-thing. This is all my fault. The rodents left in my care (rats, mice, hamsters, gerbils, and guinea pigs) were abandoned, starved, resorted to cannibalism, and subsequently escaped. The descendants of the liberated are now, justifiably, tearing down our home from inside the walls. Those that stayed behind in the cages were subject to some sort of rodent wendigo curse and became chitinous death stalking reminders of my acute and utter failure as a human being.
I come to this conclusion rather quickly. I don’t have much time to ponder it before something scurries up my pant leg. Goddamit! A rat, or maybe a ferret, has decided now will be a fun time to do the ole up the trousers routine.
But problems are opportunities in disguise! I CAN FIX THIS and it all starts with sen´ior slacks stalker. I slap my hand down on my pant leg before the bugger can get any further and lurch back to the kitchen and into the garage.
“Mom! Mom!”
“What?!”
“Look, there’s a rat in my pants,and I am NOT freaking out. I AM CALM.”
“Uh huh.”
“Would you PLEASE go deal with the spider! Then we can start catching the rodents and burn the spare room and deal with the walls.”
“No. I don’t want to.”
“Really? I’ve got a rat in my pants and you can’t be bothered to deal with the spider? We’ve got a deal. I do snakes for you, you do spiders for me.”
“I don’t see any snakes.”
I proceed to swear a lot and lumber back into the kitchen.
“OK rat boy. It’s you and me.” I unzip my pants and fish out the unwelcome guest. It is not a rat. I think it’s guinea pig, but it has a really pointy face like a rat, or maybe a weasel of some sort. I ponder for a moment.”
“I think you’re a guinea pig. So what is it? Guinea pig or weasel?”
The pig-weasel responds with the iconic “whoop-whoop-whoop” cavi enthusiasts call “wheeking.” I call it the “whoop-whoop-whoop” noise.
I hold him up to my face. “OK, your name is Scott. You are my pig now and we are going to DEAL with this situation. Keep your eyes peeled for a giant green spider.” Shining in his black piggy eyes I see my own reflection. His nose twitches in acknowledgment. We have accord.
Mom, having joined us back in the kitchen glares at me with disbelief. I know that she is not bothered or surprised in the least that I have taken this pig as my own. She’s judging my choice of name. Scott is my biological father’s name and I haven’t spoken with him in decades (except I’m a teenager now . . . so maybe it’s only been a year or two?).
“Look, I don’t know what to tell you. That’s his name. He has no other name. He is Scott.”
I tuck Scott into the crook of my elbow and march back down the hall. Scott wheeks affirmatively. He is my pig and I am his human. We are ride or die from this moment until the end of time. Sh!t’s gonna get REAL!
***
This is when I woke up with a strong sense of conviction and determination. No obstacle could stop me. I was a force for productivity and fixing of all the things. For a moment I had PURPOSE. It all came crashing down when I realized that there was no Scott. Son of a b!#$@. Stupid dream brain. You can put me in the middle of a mess with potentially malevolent monsters of my own making, but taking away my pig-weasel is a bridge to far!
I won’t forget you Scott. You were the best weasel-pig a girl ever had.
~~~
[1] Yeah, I know the name of this blog references my sleep paralysis, but as a kid I used to sleep walk. What can I say. My brain can’t make up its mind.
[2] Yes, we had this bed in real life and for a while it was mine.
*This post was originally a part of the now defunct Somnaplegic blog.
