Last Sunday we went to Hawk Island, this park in Lansing that we've been meaning to get off our lazy asses and visit. It's pretty cool -- big ol' park with a lake, and they rent rowboats and those goddamn pedal boats that seem like a great fucking idea until you're out in the middle of some body of water and your calves are cramping up and it takes you like an hour to travel 50 yards.
So we rented a rowboat, which, I soon remembered, is also a pain in the fucking ass. But it was really great, aside from Mr. Z constantly almost tumbling over the side and Miss O whining the whole time that she was thirsty... and tired. She's tired and thirsty, and I'm the asshole who's rowing.
Anywhich, it was like the fucking nature channel over there -- we saw a turtle on a log (not a euphemism), a fucking MUSKRAT, and what I'm pretty sure was a beaver. Granted, it's been a while since I've seen a beaver... especially up close. A REALLY long time. So long I can almost taste it. Boy, I could sure go for seeing a beaver tonight...
Where was I? Oh, the beaver. Right. We took a picture of it:
That's a beaver, right? We told the neighbor kid about it, and he was pretty dubious. He said, poindexterly, "Beavers are pretty rare around here. And they're very large." It was large, kid. What the shit, that's a beaver, isn't it? I guess it could've been a woodchuck. Or a gopher. No not a gopher. I know it's not a badger. Is it a badger? No. Fuck I don't know.
After about an hour and a half of our beaver hunt, we rowed it back in and headed on home. Good, clean, wholesome family fun, goddammit. See what happens when we leave the confines of our front yard? Mother Nature and her wild beaver, right in the face. Crazy.