Gator-gazing on a Friday morning ...

...  I reflected on a week that began with a flurry of odd wildlife interactions.
   It was a trifecta of terrors {well, not all of them} that began on Monday in what came to be a standoff with two egrets; one in particular.
   I've seen the creatures from a medium distance, gliding awkwardly to an unsteady landing, dorking around the neighborhood. The feathery aviators can often be a little pissy if they feel that you're getting too close, but apparently believe they can get as close to you as they like.
   This was the scene before me as two wandering egrets traipsed into the back yard and decided to check out just who was standing in the lanai. My daughter, also getting a close look from behind the safety of the screen, gazed at the 5-foot interlocutors as one of them stepped closer to us. This is when I began to talk to him; "Hey, dude, what are you thinking?" Evidently he was thinking of getting closer as he took yet another step toward the lanai; now about five feet away from us.
   "Hey, pal, I think it's time to move on, there's nothing here for you," I said in a raised, steely voice.
   Well, although he turned his back to me and began to walk away, he didn't seem to impressed by my warning, in fact he may have farted in my general direction.
   But he left.
   "Bold bastard," I thought.
   Then, Tuesday morning came.
   Tuesday's can be a bit of a rush, trundling the little one off for some preschool shenanigans and we have to be there pretty much on time.
   With fresh 'backup' clothes and a snack for the road, I secure the tyke into her car seat and round the back of the car to the driver's side and whoooooooooooa!
   Now I can't tell from the evidence whether the total shit-strafing of the left side of my car is from the arse of Monday's egret, but the whole side of the car {door handle included} has a machine-gun pattern front to back of enormo bird poop. As we were running late I had no choice but to deliver the child first and then find a car wash. It was brutal.
   But Wednesday was flat out weird.
  Another well-orchestrated exit from the abode was needed and le enfant responded to the process. I had my hands fairly full with accoutrement, keys and eine kliene snack.
   Stepping o'er the threshold, one eye one the wandering child, I reached back for the front door handle and SHHHHHeeeeeeeeeesh, what the? ... my hand recoiling from a slimebalic grasp of a not-so-well formed tiny frog that somehow managed to perch itself right on top of the round door handle.
  Momentarily stunned, my right hand now froggie-oozed, I cursed in surprise and then pleaded with my daughter not to wander off as I assessed my options.
   I opted to put my belongings on the stoop and transfer the keys to my left hand in order to at least lock the door. In order to lock the door I then gingerly reached above where the anxious amphibian sat on the handle. But as the tumbler turned the blasted creature actually leaped vertically, peeing profusely on my left hand before alighting on the porch.
   Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh!
   Now both hands were useless in tending to the child; I stood there absolutely amazed that I had become paralyzed by some 2-inch, cold-blooded, critter.
   Even my 3-year-old gazed at the scene — WTF? creeping through her tiny mind and across her face. Thankfully {probably sensing the weirdness} she managed to climb into the car and into her seat as I rushed inside to wash, wash, wash my hands before we left.
   I was still in a bit of shock for a couple of blocks and I thought, "I don't know if I'm coming out Thursday."
  But I did and all was well.