Reading · Anne The Passive Aggressive Poet

This, is sadly true.

And sprung from an actual recent conversation with the spouse.

For those of you lucky enough to own a “place at the lake” or even a “summer home”, I grudge you nothing. I’m sure you earned it. And I hope you get a lot of enjoyment from it.

The hubby and I used to dream of such a thing. The topic would come up about once a year and the conversation usually ran along the lines of “Wouldn’t it be nice if…” or “Maybe we could afford…”

Until this year.

When we both looked at each other and acknowledged the simple truth that, should we invest in such a venture, we would do one of two things (or both):

A) Pack up all our tech and drive a few hours to a lovely locale only to unpack the bags and get back to work. With, perhaps, an inviting view of water in which we were not going to fish or swim. Or paddle lazily upon.

B) Spend at least forty-eight (or more) weeks of the year lamenting the money we were throwing at something we never had time to enjoy.

Honestly, for me, this realization was less of a letdown and more of a relief. An opportunity to embrace not paying property taxes, or maintenance costs, on a second place without feeling guilty about it.

And a decision made easier by our past experiences owning a sailboat.

That boat was a wonderful thing to have when we could get out on it, but the expenses were never ending and we learned the hard way that you have to check on it all the time.

One fine Sunday, as we were leaving morning services, our organist, who happened to own a sailboat moored directly next to ours, pulled us aside for a word.

“I just wanted you to know, I saw a couple muskrats swimming around your boat yesterday.”

Idiots that we were, we smiled, thanked her very much for letting us know, and proceeded to forget all about it.

For a week.

Bad move.

It is, in fact, astonishing the level of damage a motivated member of the rodent family can do to a sailboat in the space of a few days.

When finally arriving at the dock, there was a hint that all was not as it should be.

Swirling gently around the motor compartment was the unmistakable rainbow iridescence of gasoline in the water.

My husband opened the motor compartment to see, not only a chewed gas line, but a gaping hole in the bulkhead.

The very THICK bulkhead separating the motor from the main cabin.

(Cue dramatic suspenseful music.)

He next unlocked the main hatch.

To be greeted by the sort of stench you imagine is encountered daily by murder investigation teams but not something you expect to come across in your own ordinary existence. An existence that, up to now, has been relatively free of rotting carcasses.

The interior of the cabin told a grisly story.

Muddy gasoline covered footprints traveled up and down the aisle, trampled their way up over all the cloth cushions, and came back down again to create a frenzied circle amidst several chewed bits of fairly important electrical wiring.

Whatever motives these two furry dervishes might have had when they broke in – like two teenagers taking advantage of an abandoned house for a surreptitious party – things clearly went sideways.

The footprints, and the stench, led to the bilge pump.

With mounting trepidation my husband procured a long stick and proceeded to poke about a bit. (Cue even more suspenseful music.)

Almost in slow motion, a tiny hand emerged. Attached to what was left of Mister Muskrat. His foul rotting carcass still covered in gasoline.

There was no sign of his partner in crime – we assume he/she escaped, hopefully having learned a valuable lesson.

The episode definitely taught US a lesson.

Allowing me to be totally cool with not investing in any property that has the capacity to turn into a wildlife “Weekend At Bernie’s" zone whenever my back is turned.