Animal house

Animal house

There’s a mouse in the bed, a chicken in the soup, and a dog in the church. This sounds like the opening of a children’s book, doesn’t it?  After all, we’ve all heard of famous titles such as Wishbone, If You Give a Moose a Muffin, and The Cat in the Hat.  In each story, the central character is an animal that displays characteristics that are remarkably human. We see that their greed, curiosity, love and friendship have the ability to make life for their human companions either a riveting adventure or an endless source of frustration. In many cases, life with real animals is no different. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I’ve had many interesting and unforgettable (to put it mildly) interactions with animals here in Peru. Sometimes they’re heartwarming, and sometimes they’re downright disgusting. I’m no children’s author, but in this blog post I’m going to write three short stories about my most memorable moments with animals over the past month, which range from the good to the bad to the ugly.  

The Mouse in the Bed

It’s the sound of a Peace Corps Volunteer’s worst nightmare. That soft scuffling, the crinkling of plastic bags as tiny padded feet scurry across them, the light scratch scratch as tiny claws meet a dirt floor once the lights go out. It’s the pitching sensation in your stomach as suspicious and dread sink into you as you try to sleep. Your skin starts to crawl, your eyes squeeze shut, and you bury your face in your pillow as you try not to think. But no matter how much you try to ignore it, no matter how much you deny it, deep down you know.

There’s a mouse in your room.

I’m lying in bed asleep, dreaming away when something strange happens. Something in the dream doesn’t seem to fit; it doesn’t feel right. No, literally. I feel something - four tiny, squishy pads on my left hand that immediately jolts me awake. I wake with a start, flinging my arm and smacking it into the headboard. But there’s nothing there. A dream, I tell myself while nursing my new bruise, This is what happens when you watch too much Game of Thrones before you go to sleep.

My hand still smarts as I settle into bed the next night. I turn of the lights, nestle under my covers, and curl up into a ball when I hear it. It’s faint at first, so faint I almost am able to ignore it and go to sleep.

Scratch scratch scratch…

My ears perk up and the noise gets louder.

Scratch scratch scratch…

I bolt up, snatch my flashlight, and douse my room with a beam of light. I shine it over my books, my closet, and my fruit crates that serve as a pantry. Nothing. It’s just an animal on the roof, I tell myself, Or maybe the house is settling, or perhaps it’s just a big bug.

I turn off the flashlight, roll over, and try to sleep.

Scratch scratch scratch…

And so it goes. After about five times of waking up and swinging my flashlight around madly, I leap out of bed and turn on the lights. I freeze and wait.

Nothing…

Nothing…

Nothing…

And then I see it. A small, brown form pokes out tentatively from my pile of scarves. Twitching its nose, it makes a mad dash across my windowsill, scampers down my purse hanging on the wall peg, and leaps nimbly at the floor and stares at me.

“Oh no,” I moan as I stare into the beady eyes of the mouse, “Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no…”

For the next couple of nights, I watch in horror as it crawls across my dishes, my books, my shoes. At night, I ball up in the fetal position under all my blankets, barely able to breath, as I hear it’s tiny claws. It races across the floor, across the mattress, across me as I try to sleep. I practically destroy my room as I tear it apart, trying to catch the little bastard (sorry, not exactly children-book-appropriate vocabulary, but trust me that’s tame compared to the obscenities I was screaming at the time) and chase it out the door. I swear the thing had lightning for feet. Try as I might, I could neither herd nor catch my new rodent roommate.

There was only one solution left.

After a week of hell, I went to the store and bought rat poison. I left for the weekend, came back, and voila! There was no more mouse in the bed, or anywhere for that matter.

Fin.

A Chicken in the Soup

My family has bought two chickens. They have one purpose: when they are old enough they will be plucked and eaten for dinner. I’m convinced they know their fate, and so they’ve decided to live like kings for what little time they have left.

Mr. and Mrs. Chicken rule over the courtyard behind the house. They strut and cluck and poop constantly. They hold court inside the latrine, but only when you’re inside and in most need of privacy. Trust me, there’s nothing more unnerving than having two sets of beady eyes stare at you as you go to the bathroom. They prance into the kitchen, which for them is both dining hall and bathhouse. They feast on scraps left on the floor and relax in the local hot springs. And by hot springs, I mean the soup. No joke, I once entered the kitchen to find them both sitting in pots of soup that had been left uncovered on the floor, as if it were their own personal jacuzzis. Seeking to expand the boundaries of their kingdom, they frequently break into the house when a door is accidentally left open. They often enjoy going to the storage room, which leads to the staircase to the second floor where I live. Marking the uncharted territory as their own, they poop all over the place. But only, of course, after I’ve swept and cleaned it.

These chickens are dictators and I, a mere plebian to them, cannot wait for their demise.

Fin.

A dog in the church

It’s May and the town is getting ready to celebrate Bajo de Cruces, the celebration of Jesus’ crucifixion and the lowering of his body from the cross. The doors of the Catholic church have been unlocked and swing open, the nuns from a nearby town arrive to facilitate the masses and parades, the town gears up for nights of music and partying. I, ever the dutiful volunteer, am working. I’m on my way to the municipality to turn in a monthly report when suddenly I’m bombarded by small children. They’re friends of mine – each is the son or daughter of one of the health staff.

“Lyndsey! Lyndsey! Look what we found!”

Josef, the 9-year old son of a nurse technician, holds his hat out reverently as the children crowd around. I look inside and see a black, wriggling, crying form. It’s a puppy. My heart sinks as I realize that it couldn’t have been more than a couple of weeks old. It didn’t even have its eyes open yet.

“Where did you find him?” I ask, trying not to panic.

“In the church! In the church!” They chant back.

Very calmly, I explain that it’s important to return the puppy back to where they found it. It is far too young to survive without its mother. Sadly, the kids lead me to the spot where the puppy was found – a small, dusty broom closet filled with broken pews and other forms of tattered bric-a-brac. As we lay the puppy down on the ground, a hesitant, shivering black nose pokes out of the shadows. The mother, thankfully, was still at home and very grateful to have her son returned to her.

And so, I met one of my best friends here in Aurahua. Milagros, a name I gave her which means “miracle” in Spanish (appropriate, I thought, for a dog found in a church), is one of the sweetest dogs you’ll ever meet. She comes no higher than my knee, has ears that resemble bat wings, and long, black fur.

When I was unable to find a new home for her, I decided to make daily trips to the church to give her some food and company. The church is normally locked unless it’s a religious holiday, and once the Bajo de Cruces was done the gates were shut. However, underneath one of the side doors was enough space for Milagros to squeeze in and out. Every day, I’d wait by the hole and call her. She’d wiggle out, wag her tail, and I’d leave her breakfast and later dinner. Sometimes she’d find me in the plaza and sit beside me. Other times if she spotted me in the street, she’d race up, jump, and wrap her front legs around me in a hug. When I had to travel to town to attend a meeting, she’d accompany me to the bus to say goodbye.

Unfortunately, the end of Milagros’ story isn’t entirely happy. During another holiday when the church was open, someone entered the broom closet and took her puppy. At this point, he was probably somewhere around 3-months old – old enough to survive without his mom, but too young to leave so soon. I had seen him the night before. He was nothing but a bundle of black fuzz with brown and white socks. I had debated taking him with me, but ultimately decided to leave him in his home until I could find him a new home. I had just arranged for my friend, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, to take him when someone got to him before I could. I can only hope that they thought he was an orphan and decided to give him a good home.

Milagros and I, though, still meet regularly. I’ve since learned that she’s partially being taken care of another family, which is a huge relief. She comes and she goes but, as always, whenever we find each other she greets me with a big hug. 

Fin.