The Telltale Sump Pump

So it rained in Illinois. Nothing to compare with the hurricanes, mind you, or even the rain that the Chicago area got, but rain all the same. A consequence of the rain is that our basement flooded. The good news is that the house we're renting has a sump pump, so it only flooded a little. The bad news is that it's been pumping its little heart out since yesterday morning.

Have you ever lived with a sump pump before? I don't think I have. In all honesty, I didn't even know what exactly a sump pump did until we moved here. It turns out that what it does is pump. All. Day. Long. Squish-chug. Squish-chug. It's like a really loud, really persistent washing machine. Squish-chug. The exact same rhythm. Over and over and over again. And in a relatively small one-floor house, there is no escaping its noise.

At various times today I have found myself tapping my leg, petting the dog, and washing myself in the shower to the rhythm of the sump pump. When I was contemplating the writing of this, I checked my pulse, half-convinced that it would be beating in time to the rhythm of the sump pump. If the water doesn't go away, I will soon be in a padded room, rocking and twitching to the rhythm of the sump pump.

That may be a possibility. Along with the fact that it's still drizzling occasionally, the problem is that our basement water is seepage from the ground being so saturated. When the sump pump pumps, the water goes out through a long pipe back into our yard, where it goes back into the ground, and eventually back toward the house and through the wall, starting the cycle again. Over and over and over again. Squish-chug.

I am sorry to sound ungrateful, particularly if you're dealing with rain or, heaven forbid, hurricane aftermath right now. I know that the sump pump noise is a small price to avoid flood damage. I'm just wondering if we should check our renter's insurance policy to see if it covers emotional damage.

Everyone poops (but, dude, only dogs eat it)

Hi everybody! No, I'm not dead. I've been putting off posting for a host of reasons, not least of which is that I was having problems writing an interesting "Here's the story of our move and our new life" type post. And I was whining to the husband (as I am wont to do), and he said, "Um, so don't?" (Actually he said, "Dear god in heaven, stop talking about it and right about something else then," but paraphrasing is everybody's friend.) So, suffice it to say that we're moved, and I'm employed, and more on that another time. Today, though, I want to talk about poop.

Specifically, I want to talk about bunny poop, and its effect on my dog. (I should probably have warned you two sentences ago to stop now if discussions of gross dog habits bother you.) Our little piece of Midwestern heaven is Happy Bunny Land. There is lots of grass and very little traffic, and oh, how the bunnies love it. In our first weeks here, we noticed that the dog, when released into the yard, would sniff around very intently as if on the trail of something. "Oh, how cute," we said to ourselves. "The boy's hunting instincts have been awoken. He's on the trail of something, ha ha."

Then one day, I was out with him when I noticed an errant piece of dog poop. Next to it was a little pile of bunny poop. I went to get something with which to correct the situation, and when I came back, the rabbit poop was gone. The dog had been sniffing there, and the only reasonable conclusion to draw is that the dog ate the rabbit poop.

I fully realize that asking the bunnies of the neighborhood not to poop in our yard is like asking the kindergarten teacher not to bring in paste. The fact that my dog is not the brightest crayon in the box is not the fault of the rabbits (or the squirrels, or the raccoons, or whatever else may be providing my dog with mid-day snacks). And it doesn't seem to make him sick or anything. I just wish that he wasn't so intent about the whole process. If he thinks there's some in the vicinity he will ignore everything (with the notable exceptions of his tennis ball and the word "treat"), until he tracks it down. We feed him, play with him, allow him to share our home, and yet we lose out to rabbit crap. It's enough to make me weep. Or gag. Or, I don't know, fix the gap in the fence that lets the bunnies in.

On reflection, I think I'll stick to weeping and gagging.