Mama Makea's
The house is tiny, but efficient and decked out in copious amounts of wood, stains long since faded with a dulling sheen of gray that gives it that lived in luster that one will not see in all those fancy "renovated" versions that can be found in trendier parts of town. It's a Craftsman bungalow just like those, but one that's still quite authentic to era it was created. Dated furniture is brought to life with deep, soothing colors and wildly patterned pillows. The decor is a blend of matching chaos, thick with dark purples, blues and greens while the accents are brighter hues of gold, splashes of red, and browns. The designs range from animal print to nonsensical swirls, as well as those clearly under Turkish influence.
There are a few knickknacks one would expect to find in an older woman's home, but several trinkets are notably unusual. African animal figurines and candy bowls made of carnival glass adds to the clashing colors. Goblets, bleached bones, as well as candles of every shape and color are strategically placed around a sizable collection of books. Most can be found in their proper place, but some are strewn about, either settled under another object, or open to a particularly fascinating page. Despite the clutter, everything is kept relatively dust free. The cleanliness of the place is belied by the scents that give hint to just how many generations of love have passed through this house. A set of stairs heads up to an even smaller second level that promises to reveal just as many homey stories as the first.
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No matter how much she adores her students, Makea can't deny that a night spent home alone is relaxing. Curled up on her couch, she's relaxing with a cup of hot spiced cider. There's a hint of music, Ray Charles turned low enough so that she can still enjoy him while not too distracted from her reading. Dracula slippers peak out from beneath her housecoat, where her legs are tucked in close to her body. Her home is lacking it's usual canine visitors for the night, doors and windows locked to keep the chilly fall air out. Round frames settled on her face, the woman chuckles low in her throat as a page is turned, revealing that the swamp monster wasn't dead after all. What was she supposed to be reading? Sherlock? No no, Makea is quite happy with her Tales of Horror comic book, thank you.
It starts with a distant thump, which could be easily discounted as a byproduct of the windy night. Silence follows to soothe any urge of the nerve. Then sometime later there is a dull thud overhead, followed just seconds later by a crash as something fragile collides with the floor. All at once the second floor explodes with noise, and mixed amongst the undecipherable clamor are other sounds, such as that of large wings battering the air, eerie screeches that clearly belong to some sort of bird, layering over much quieter sounds such as tiny squeaks of fright and scurrying claws upon wood. The racket suddenly culminates at the top of the stairs with the appearance of a small creature that is scuttling so fast it overshoots the first step and goes scrambling slippery paws right off the edge, only to drop atop the second step on its head, tumbling right off the second to the third, then onto the fourth before it gets a handle on the purchase of paws on slick wood. A quick glance back at the owl rounding the corner has the little creature scurrying off the edge to do a leap land on the fifth step, bouncing once before landing on the sixth. A too close for comfort squawk decides the last action which seemingly appears to be a giant leap to its death as the little squirrel launches off the sixth step, but as air is caught tiny legs are flung out, tenting rodent flesh to catch a current that carries him down towards the lower room.
Makea is used to her old house making noises, so the first thump is ignored as she sips at her hot drink. As soon as she hears something break upstairs, however, she furrows her brows in mild concern. Mild, because she still has her home fairly secured against anyone who would wish to cause her harm. But still, it sounded like one of her many figurines might have fallen and broke. Comic book is set down on the couch and the apple cider is abandoned as she stands to investigate. The screeches cause her pace to quicken, rounding the corner of her staircase. Dark eyes zero in on the owl and she gives a shriek of surprise, hand clutched to her chest. The fuzzy projectile causes her to move to the side suddenly, letting the little squirrel… glide? It doesn't take her long to realize that she's got the Discovery Channel going on in her house. Makea will choose a poor little squirrel over a nasty old owl anyday. "Shoo!" Grabbing up a broom, she'll make her way up the stairs, smacking the bristled end against each step. She'd never hurt the animal… just wants it to get up out her house!
The squirrel glides right on past Makea and should she have time to actually /see/ the little creature's furry face, she might spy what looks like a smug expression curling tiny lips. Claws spread, they reach to grab the fabric of the couch as a somewhat neat landing is made, only for a few frayed threads to loosen and cause a floundering end over end fall that terminates in a splatting faceplant into the floor. So much for smug. The owl yowls out a hair-raising screech as Makea confuses it with the broom and it slams into the wall of the stairway, sliding down a couple feet before wings catch on a pocket of air. It flops wildly around, trying to get bearings and ward off the broom its sure is trying to kill it. Soon it catches on that beating a quick exit is best, so it attempts to find its way back the way it came, only to slam into the wall at the top of the stairs, falter, pick itself back up before hitting the floor, and awkwardly flap its way through the doorway to the disheveled room with the open window.
Makea winces every time that owl hurts itself, which causes her to back off with the broom. Not enough for it to get brave, but she really feels guilty when the owl comes in contact with the wall. A few times. There are no more verbal encouragements, though her voice is clearly heard with 'oofs' at watching the poor bird of prey smack itself around. Following the owl to her bedroom, she herds it towards the open window. Funny, she could have sworn that she had closed that. Once the bird is sufficiently shooed out, she'll slam the window closed. One critter down, one to go. Ignoring the mussed up room for a moment, she makes her way down the steps in an attempt to find out where the little squirrel went. "Shoot. I don't wanna have'ta lay out a human trap…" Eyes scan the living room, sure that the little critter has found some crevice to hide in by now.
Nope, it's lying right where it landed, dizzy from all the excitement, but really close to the underspace of the couch just in case the owl got brave before it escaped. Once the little critter heard the window upstairs closed, it just sank down with relief, panting, its head pressed against the cool floor. Other than the slow rise and fall of breathing the squirrel is ominously still.
A pained sound leaves her throat, worried as well as not looking forward to the possibilities of having to bury the poor thing. Still, she takes slow, cautious steps towards the squirrel that looks to be half-dead from shock. And it's on her floor. The urge to prod it with the stick-end of the broom still in her hand is great, but Makea manages to fight it. Instead she leans it up against the wall and crouches down to get a closer look at the fuzzy creature. She can't seem to remember if squirrels are possible carriers of rabies or not. "Po' lil' thing…" Perhaps it's in enough shock that she can scoop it up and get it outside? So she tries, hands moving slowly to try and collect the squirrel.
The sight of giant paws coming at him has the squirrel scrambling to get up and in the 'run' position should there be a need. It's still panting, little sides heaving from the exertion of the long chase scene that ensued when the owl spotted him peacefully nutting in a tree. The little body twitches nervously, but for whatever reason, rather than run it sits otherwise perfectly still.
Makea freezes, eyes wide from behind those rimless glasses as the squirrel looks ready to bolt. Her first instinct is to soothe it, and she cooes softly, "Now now, Mama ain't gonna hurt ya." Some might feel rediculous, talking to a panicked critter. Not she. Her hands move much slower than before, but soon they're near enough to be bitten. This causes some worry, but she doesn't make any sudden movements for fear of just that! "C'mon, let's get you back outside, huh? I'm sure that big ol' owl is gone now…"
Something, be it the close proximity of the hands or oddly enough the mention of being thrown out into the cold with the owl, the squirrel suddenly darts, running as quickly as possible for those Dracula slippers that it actually appears to glance at with a surprised blink as it speeds by. A quick leap and it's up under that housecoat, grabbing hold with those miniscule soft claws to whatever is beneath and heading north to heaven.
Oh the shriek can be heard for miles. Never much for being squeamish, Makea can't help but feel her freak out is justified. There's a SQUIRREL under her /robe/. And lord knows she isn't expecting visitors, so what's underneath to help the critter in his ascent? More robe. And skin. She wiggles, she bounces, she reaches up under the fabric to try and dislodge the animal. During it all, the woman can't help but laugh in between those shrieks, soft fur tickling in a way she is quite sure is illegal in Texas. If the little guy is quick enough, he might not get snatched up by her claws. But, where exactly is he heading?
The squirrel is wily and was fully expecting either grabby hands or sudden slaps from outside the fabric to squash him dead, so he's doing the clever serpentine action to avoid being caught or smashed by frantic hands. Up, up, up a leg, using the underside of the robe as well as flesh, paws striking down to tickle right on the gates of heaven before bouncing off to carry on higher, claws eventually curling on the rim of her navel and pulling himself up, where he pauses to catch his breath and get his bearings. It's hot under there!
Enough is enough! She's tired of this motherfuckin' squirrel in her motherfuckin' housecoat! Once his little claws settle around her navel, she shoves her hand down the top rather than the bottom. Doing one better, her other hand loosens the sash at her waist all together and she's doing her damnest to dislodge the little critter. "You don't… have'ta… go home, but you CANNOT stay in there!" She tries to bargain with the squirrel, hand more than once brushing against soft fur. Though it's up to how tired it is, and how quick she manages to be. Thank goodness the blinds are closed.
Top down grabbing confuses the tiny creature with the tiny brain and he squeaks when caught, squirming wildly, limbs flailing in all directions. Fear and its own terrified noise making creates such a din that he doesn't hear the deal and so he'll continue attempting release, but not to the point of biting or painful clawing. The claws may scrape to the point of tickling as he tries to dig his way out of the hand, but that's about it.
Makea finally manages to get her hands on the squirrel, and as annoyed as she is she's careful not to make her grip too tight. "Oh would you listen to that!" She asks no one in particular, likely not heard over the dramatic squealing and crying of the frightened creature. Disheveled robe and half bared to the word, she tries to loosen her grip enough to reassure him, but not let the rodent go. He doesn't seem to be biting, which only strengthens her resolve to hold onto the squirrel. "Shhhh. Shhhh. There's no need for alla that." Her voice becomes just a touch louder, "Hush." It's a command that she follows with a light brush of her finger over his little squirrely head.
When the squirrel comes to a sudden halt upon command it could be considered the first hint that all is not as it seems. His tiny warm body goes slack, fur expanding with large gasps for breath. After a few seconds of holding him Makea would feel something wetly slick and warm on her hand. Should her eyes go to the floor, she'll see the same substance there as well in a tiny sanguine puddle.
Makea lets out a soft sight that might ruffle his headfur a bit, but at least she'll smell like spiced apples. "There." She's quite happy that he's stopped squirming, though slightly concerned about how hard the little thing is breathing. The warm, trickling sensation registers, and when she glances at the floor, panic sets in. At first she thinks it's her own blood, and the trail up her coat certainly doesn't help calm her down. The lack of pain is a big tip off, and she's ever so slow to peel one hand away from the critter, the palm that's likely covered in the crimson stuff. While he seems calm enough, she still doesn't release him with one hand, fingers circled around his little form.
When the covering hand comes away it'll reveal a set of rounded eyes peering up at her, and a mini black nose twitching almost constantly as it tastes the air for evidence of her demeanor hidden within the whole of her scent. A paw is wriggled out between two fingers, claws wrapping around on top in a softly sweet manner. Still he stares, watching, waiting, eyeing the giant face hovering above.
Makea is still trying to pinpoint the cause of the blood, but meanwhile she gets caught up in that cute little nose twitchin' at her. "See? I ain't so scary. Nothin' like an owl." A finger loosens around him, only to bend and arch to pet his soft head. After the moment she takes to try and soothe him, she slowly turns him this way and that. Lifting the squirrel up and away from her, she tries to see just where he might be hurt.
Should she adjust to see him from the rear, she'll see two things. The first being a talon-sized slice through the grey fur at the base of his tail. Then further down, there appears to be a bare area of skin that curls around to the hidden section of his little leg. The blood appears to be coming from the slice and while it isn't a life threatening flow, it's steady enough to make the critter a bit woozy, forcing him to rest his fuzzy chin on her palm.
"Damn." Makea murmurs, making the first sudden move of the evening and heading straight for the bathroom. A washcloth is laid down on the counter and she'll slowly place him down on it. Closing the door behind her to make sure he doesn't try to escape, she'll first wash the blood off her hands. Sterilized somewhat, the woman will shrug out of her robe to turn it inside out so that the blood isn't rubbing up against her. Who cares, it's just a squirrel, right? "We gotta do somethin' about that, lil' guy…" Though what, she isn't quite sure about. Cleaning the wound becomes her priority, and after wetting another cloth with warm water, she moves to stroke his head. "This'd be so much easier if I could give ya a sip of brandy first…" Her touch is gentle and slow, trying to add a bit of pressure to stop the bleeding as well.
The squirrel digs his nose in the cloth to capture the invisible layers of scent ensconced within, but when he's finished with that the wet cloth earns a wiggling of the nose. So far nothing seems overly alarming, so he settles, whiskers wiggling as that nose continues to work the air on the hunt for helpful notes that filter into his head to be run through min-processor within. When the warm cloth touches does he emits a tiny fearful squeak and squirms a bit as pain flares straight out from his rump.
Sympathetic sounds of pain leave her half-parted lips, lifting one hand so that he has something to lean against as she persistantly strokes the blood from his fur. "Shhh. I know baby, I know. It hurts. Just as soon as I get this cleaned up I'll give you as many pecans as y'can shove into your chubby lil' cheeks. M'kay?" Yes, Makea is talking to a squirrel. It's not really the words that are important, rather the fact that she's talking soft and slow, trying to soothe the creature with the sound of her voice. That empty hand is pressed near his head, keeping him boxed in. Adding pressure to the wound may hurt, but in the end it'll help to stop the bloodflow.
Oh it hurts! It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts! Owowowow! Pecans?! Oh ow! That's how his tiny mind is working, and soon he can no longer stand the pain and starts squirming rather hard, paws scrambling as he wriggles around, ending up on his back with paws braced against hand or cloth, trying to keep it at bay. Of course this position hurts because now there's constant pressure on his backside, but he still thinks it's the cloth that is doing it. Owowowow!
Makea can't stand to see the critter in pain, and when he finally flips over onto his back she pulls that cloth away. "Not gonna let me do much more, are you?" She'll straighten him up, quite confident that the squirrel won't bite her for whatever reason. Which means the woman is confident enough to scoop him up, dry washcloth and all. Making a sort of nest in her hand, she carries him out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. Squirrel stew!? No, Makea isn't that southern as she opens up the pantry to reveal all kinds of good stuff. Her aim is to dip her hand into a bag and pull out a small palmful of… almonds! One is offered, balanced between two of those manicured talons, "Toldya. I keep my word, y'lil trouble maker."
But, it's an almond. The hard shell is gazed at and a blink later, after the nose twitches several times, the squirrel shoves it out of his nest and peers expectantly up at Makea. That long glorious tail has a mind of its own and curls about her wrist like a soft feathery pouf. Live squirrel bracelets are all the rage down on the farm! The little beast has not only claimed the washcloth nest, but the branch that's holding it as well.
It's amazing how one little action can make up for so much trouble. The second the squirrel shoves the nut out of his nest, Makea is laughing. "What? I thought squirrels- Oooooh. Right. I said pecans, didn't I?" The almonds are deposited back into the bag, as she even stoops down to pick the one up from the floor. She pauses before throwing it away, realizing that… an animal shouldn't be that picky. How would he even know the difference between a pecan and an almond? Eying the critter in her palm, she'll toss the soiled nut away and reach back for a handful of pecans. One is offered in a similar manner as before, this time the promised treat.
An excited squeak foretells of the next movement as the squirrel perks upright and latches onto the pecan with both forepaws in a firmly possessive manner. In doing this, the back legs are stretched in such a way their undersides can be seen, as well as that weird naked patch of hair on the left one that is sizeable. Did he get hurt there as well? The paws tug. Gimme.
Makea doesn't give him the pecan right away, letting him work for it. "Aah…" She seems to be having too much fun, holding the treat hostage. When it comes right down to it, the squirrel is just another stray that she's taken in to feed and care for. His underside is examined, and while there's no blood on that bald patch, she is curious. Finally the pecan is released, and she'll make sure that if he's tugging, he doesn't fall out of her hand. "Greedy." One hand full of squirrel, the other full of treats for him, she grabs a dirty rag to take to the livingroom and lazily mop up the drops of blood from before. "Now just what am I gonna do with you?"
Oh pecan, pecan, pecan, lovely beautiful pecan. It's really hard to find pecans in Dallas that aren't hidden in someone's pantry, so they are to be savored and loved and… cuddled? The squirrel holds the nut close as he rolls over onto his back, tail releasing to spread out flat in all his distracted delight. There are faint sounds of crunching as teeth nibble away at a ridge on the pecan. This is going to be a slow luxurious feast. The position gives an even better exposure to that bald spot, and the flesh seems somewhat red and enflamed with an odd bit of color at the center. It's hard to see what exactly it is while he's randomly kicking and grabbing the pecan with both back legs.
Makea is busy mopping up his blood, but once the squirrel goes into happy rolling mode she can't help but notice. "Just as happy as can be, hm?" Her keen eyes spy that bald patch, still looking for a wound or at least a scar. It does look pretty nasty and red, she will admit that. Popping a pecan into her mouth to join him in his feast, she tucks the soiled rag away to be picked up later. She moves back towards the couch, though doesn't pick up her comic book, much more intrigued by her little intruder. "What in..? Just what did you do to yourself?" DING. She slowly leans back against the couch, hand still acting as his happypecanmunching nest. Her eyes narrow ever so faintly.
The closer she gets to more obvious it becomes that the lack of hair is by design, having been shaved for that blotch of color that slowly transforms into an odd tiny tiny picture of Rocky the Flying Squirrel. It's clearly a tattoo. A fresh one too, no more than two or three days old. The squirrel doesn't notice the eyeing until it becomes impossible to miss that giant face squinting down at him filling up the world on the other side of the nut. He emits a small strangled squeak of fear and flips over, struggling to keep a hold on the pecan while frantically looking for the best exit. She's going to eat me!
There are suspicions, and looking closer at that little bald spot, they are very much confirmed. "Oh no you don't!" Makea has known of his kind for decades, and the fact that it takes her this long to spot one fully shifted is… really quite embarrassing. "Joao!" Once again, those hands become a cage, but now more than ever she's careful not to hurt the squirrel in her grasps. "You sneaky lil'… Always knew there was somethin' off about you." Though can she really blame him? They're not exactly supposed to go off and brag about their abilities. She knows that better than anyone. "Tsk. I'll let you go if you promise not to run. I don't want you goin' outside! You're still hurt." Oh yeah, Mama mode is most certainly activated.
Had she not shouted his name before caging him again, the squirrel might have actually done something bad to get himself free out of pure unadulterated fright. Thankfully the naming triggers something within the little critter to cause him to stop and think before acting. The nose goes to work again, sniffsniffsniffing at the hand and the scent that feels familiar, so little by little he calms down. With the flesh of the pecan broken open by the nibbling, the scent becomes pervasive to his senses and soon he's back to carelessly nibbling while he listens to the soothing voice of his savior.
Makea waits for him to calm himself, not realizing just how close she came to having little rodent teeth in her finger. Or whatever that something bad was. Only when he's fully engrossed in the pecan once more, does she finally lift her hand away. "You and I are /so/ gonna have a talk, boy." But she's no longer feeling the volitile emotions of surprise or fright, so the squirrel has nothing to pick up on other than calm. Satisfied that she has enough nuts with her to keep him content, she begins to slowly lean back and try to re-curl up on the couch. The washcloth, along with Joao, will be allowed a perch on the top shelf of her clothed bosom. She can keep her eye on him that way. Doing what she can to make sure that he doesn't leave, Makea keeps him satiated with pecans while spitting her attention back to the page of her comic. Amazing how the most absurd reason for all of that night's chaos, is the easiest for her to handle.
