Crazy Neighbor Kid, Continued

I have a feeling there's going to be plenty to say about this crazy girl.

One afternoon last week, she stormed my porch and pounded the hell out of my door. This got my dog all worked up because go figure, when someone comes flying up the steps and frantically knocking, he thinks something is wrong.

I cautiously opened the main door and told her she best step back and close the storm door before my dog made an afternoon snack out of her.

"It's urgent!" she said out of breath. "I need your help! It's an urgent emergency."

Are there any other kind, I wondered. Oh hell, who is dead or dismembered, I thought. Because if it's an urgent emergency, I'm guessing there's blood and protruding bones involved.

"The post office," she huffed and puffed, "what time will it be open tomorrow?"

I craned my neck to look at the clock, "Uh, it will be open in 15 minutes after the lunch break," I told her.

Then she proceeded to ramble on something about her mom's birthday. She counted days on her fingers, lying her cash down on the steps to use both hands.

"Look," I told her. "You've got to stop running up in my yard like that. The last time, you scared a cat up a tree, and today, you've got my dog thinking you're an axe murderer. When you yell about urgent emergencies, which is redundant speech by the way, the dog and I both think there's something really wrong, and that's not nice when it's not really an emergency. Do you understand because I don't want you to get bit or knocked down by my dog?"

She nodded her head, gave me a vacant stare, and started prattling about heart or dog stamps.

I shook my head. "Pick out whatever you think your mom would like best," I told her. "I've got things to do. See you later." I shut the door.

On Sunday, my husband was outside raking up some fallen twigs and branches from the storm we had over the weekend. I heard him talking to someone and went outside. There she stood, again all flustered and having trouble breathing. She only lives about a block around the corner, so I don't know. Maybe she's got asthma or something.

I couldn't help myself when I asked, "Now what?"

There was a snake, apparently a dead snake, and she was quite animated. What she didn't realize is that my husband is the wrong guy to be asking when it comes to even a brief discussion about snakes. He doesn't like them at all. I don't care for them, but my dislike can't hold a candle to his.

I'm really not sure what she wanted from us, but I made it clear he wasn't going to go hunt down a snake for her, and I most certainly was not. She said she thought it was dead because it was bleeding.

"Well, what happened to it?" I asked.

"I killed it, but I can't cut it in half because they do have really tough skin," she told me.

My husband suggested she get a plastic bag and pick it up after she said that she and her mom were really afraid of them, but she wanted to prove to her parents that she was right that there was a snake in the tall grass behind her house, and that she wasn't lying.

Then she said, "My mom and I are voracious of them."

To which my husband said, "Huh?"

"My mom and I are voracious of snakes."

Again, he said, "Huh?"

"Voracious."

"Huh?"

"I think she means scared," I said.

"Yes, we're scared," she exclaimed.

"Get a bag and pick up the snake," I told her. "And voracious means eager or greedy. Like you have a voracious appetite when you're really, really hungry."

Hey, if she's going to show up at my house and have "urgent emergencies" and "be voracious of snakes," she might as well get an English lesson if she's taking up my time.

"You're the best!" she told my husband. "I just like you so very much," she called out as she peddled away on her bicycle. "I like you so very much."

I looked at my husband and said, "I like you so very much, so very, very much. Ahh, you've made a friend."