The Odd 1s Out

by James Rallison

  I live in the desert of Arizona. Even the early birds here don’t get the worms because worms aren’t native to the desert. This is because the soil here is basically dry dirt and clay.

  Here’s a fun factoid: A little way down in the ground, we have a layer of cement-like soil called caliche. Caliche is so dense, the Native Americans who lived in Arizona used it to build their houses. The Casa Grande Ruins in Coolidge are still standing after seven hundred years.

  The point being: Any soil that can be used to construct a centuries-old two-story house isn’t going to be good for growing things. You can dig a hole and plant a tree, but that tree’s roots aren’t going to make it through the caliche. They will run across your lawn and tap on your window asking for a drink before they’ll dig through the caliche.

  So if you want to grow things like a garden or trees in Arizona, you have to improve the soil. The best way to do this is to buy new soil and throw it on the ground.

  But there are other methods too. You can also compost, mulch, fertilize, and aerate, before you give up and buy new soil.

  My parents have always had delusions about growing a garden. They’ve done all of the above in an attempt to grow tomatoes. It never really worked, though.

  One day my mom and I were out walking in a neighboring subdivision and it happened to be raining. In other states when it rains, people stay inside and wait it out, hoping for better weather. In Arizona, people happily rush outside and start singing, or if they’re in their car, they try to remember how to work their windshield wipers.

  While we were walking outside in the rain, we happened to notice that there were worms on the sidewalk in front of one particular house. These people had obviously imported worms from a store to improve their landscaping.

  According to a nature website I read once, worms are often called “nature’s plow.” They burrow through the ground and aerate the soil, which lets in water and oxygen. If they hit hard earth, they eat it. How many of you can say that about your problems? Worms eat organic matter and poop out their weight every day. And worm poop makes good soil. Think about that the next time you eat something that grew from the ground.

  But worms aren’t intelligent creatures. Throw a little water on them and they’ll crawl out of the safety of their dirt homes and try their luck in the middle of a road. That’s just never going to end well. Worms can’t drive.

  And so as we stood in front of this house, some of “nature’s plows” were hurrying to their death by traveling away from the dirt and into the road.

  My mom thought it would be a good idea to try to steal save some of the worms and use them for our garden, which at the time was growing mostly tumbleweeds.

  Hey, it’s not stealing somebody’s worms if they’re on a death march (crawl) to the middle of the street. We were rescuing them.

  At any rate, when we came home from the walk, my mom told me to take a bowl, drive back over to that subdivision, and get some of the worms for our garden.

  Perhaps the saddest thing about this story is that this isn’t even the strangest request I’ve gotten from my parents. I didn’t want to do it, but I’m a good son, so I got an old bowl and drove over.

  At first, things went well. I parked the car, I walked over to where the worms were fleeing—they’re not that fast so it’s not that hard to catch them—and, using a stick, I scooped up a bunch of worms and put them into the bowl. Worm rescue accomplished. And if the neighbors looked out, they would probably think,

  “Hey, it’s that weird kid who used to come out every night to catch crickets. Is he stealing our worms now too?”

  I put the bowl on the seat beside me and started to drive home.

  The thing about worms is that when you touch them with a stick, they roll up into a circle and play dead. I guess they think this makes them less appetizing to predators. But actually, any animal who would eat a worm in the first place is probably not going to be that picky about eating one that’s been dead for a few seconds.

  So at first all of the worms were calmly playing dead in the bowl, but as I drove down the street, they seemed to come to the realization that they didn’t need to play dead anymore.

  And all of them began trying to escape from the bowl.

  For creatures who are stupid enough to go charging into a street to take on cars, they’re pretty good at escaping from bowls.

  I should have realized that if worms are good at climbing up out of the ground, of course they would be good at climbing out of a bowl.

  While I was driving, I looked over and noticed that several of them were halfway out.

  I did what anybody in that situation would do: I screamed. Then I drove the car with one hand while simultaneously trying to shake the worms back into the bowl. This is not a good driving technique, especially if it happens to be raining and you still don’t know how to work the windshield wipers.

  Some of you are probably thinking, “James, your life’s not worth a bunch of worms.” But the thing is, I couldn’t focus on driving while I knew that every passing second another worm was escaping and probably going to rot underneath the seats.

  Besides, I was going out with friends later and I didn’t want to have to say, “Hey, in case you feel anything wet and slimy slithering around your seat, it’s just a bunch of worms.”

  So, yes, I drove home one-handed while shaking the bowl to get a bunch of worms to play dead again.

  When I finally got to my house, I went to the backyard and threw them in the garden, and I never saw them again. I don’t even know if they were smart enough to stick around and burrow into the ground or if they headed straight toward the street and their impending deaths again. Maybe the early birds showed up and got them.

  The garden didn’t really get any better after that so it’s hard to tell.

  Some people ask me why I always end my YouTube videos with the phrase, “Wear your seatbelt.”

  Experiences like this are probably why.

  Chapter 10

  Georgie vs. the Chihuahua

  One of the most frustrating things about owning a dog is that you can’t ask them questions.

  The most important question I wish I could ask my dog, Georgie, is: Why do you hate Chihuahuas?

  Georgie is fine with other dogs. Maybe it’s because she’s on the small-dog end of the canine spectrum and doesn’t want to tick off bigger dogs.

  The only dog breed that Georgie hates is Chihuahuas. I don’t know what Chihuahuas ever did to her, but she hates them with an intense and persistent passion.

  Georgie is a Westie, and those were bred to kill rodents, so I guess it is entirely possible that Georgie is so stupid she can’t tell the difference between a Chihuahua and a rat.

  This wouldn’t be much of a problem, except that a neighbor who lives a few streets down from us has a Chihuahua. I’m pretty sure my dog thinks our neighbor is out walking her pet rodent every day.

  Whatever the case, Georgie has decided that the Chihuahua is her archnemesis.

  The first time I found out about this relationship, my older brother had just come home from work and was in the driveway getting things out of his car. Georgie stood by the front window barking frantically. I thought she was just excited that Luke had come home and wanted to see him. I opened the door, expecting Georgie to trot over to Luke. Instead, she completely ignored him and dashed across the yard to our neighbor, who we’ll now refer to as the Chihuahua Lady, out walking Archnemesis.

  I was surprised, but not worried. Georgie has always gotten along with every other dog she’s met. In fact, our family became friends with another neighborhood family because every time she sees their dog, Coco, in the park, she barks until we take her there. This social visit usually involves Georgie sniffing Coco’s butt and peeing wherever she thinks Coco has peed. This is what best friends do. So Georgie gets along with others.


  Anyway, I was just about to call out to the Chihuahua Lady and tell her not to worry because Georgie is a friendly dog, when I saw my dog transform into Satan.

  The lady tried to protect her Chihuahua by yanking its leash so that the dog was lifted off the ground. Little Archnemesis was barking and yapping and trying to bite Georgie, because apparently, he’d never noticed that every other dog is bigger than him. The Chihuahua Lady kept turning her body away from Georgie, and Georgie kept chasing after her dog, until the Chihuahua was basically airborne and swinging around like he was hooked on to a ceiling fan.

  I don’t know why she didn’t just pick her dog up.

  Don’t worry, the Chihuahua was fine. I think.

  I finally reached my dog, picked her up, and apologized. “I’ve never seen her act this way,” I said. “I don’t know what got into her.”

  The Chihuahua Lady was understandably upset. “Your dog has already done this once before,” she told me. “Your little sister had your dog at the park and she tried to attack my dog there.”

  I wouldn’t have believed that story if I hadn’t just seen my dog act like she was possessed by demons. I apologized some more, hauled Georgie inside, and gave her a stern talking-to.

  I’d like to say that the story ends here, and my dog was well-behaved after that, but no. That’s not what happened. There’s still a lot left in this chapter.

  Georgie, for whatever canine reason, decided it was her job to eradicate all Chihuahuas from the neighborhood. Every time my sister and I took her on a walk and we passed the Chihuahua Lady’s house, Georgie went ballistic. She barked and pulled on the leash until she was choking herself—again, I never claimed she was a smart dog—and she insisted on peeing on the sidewalk in front of her archnemesis’s house, repeatedly. Because Georgie wanted the Chihuahua to know she’d been by.

  A couple of times when we opened the door to let someone in, Georgie ran outside and sped off toward the Chihuahua Lady’s house. We always caught her by the gate trying to tunnel her way into their backyard. Anytime she tried to do that, we put her in her kennel as punishment. She knew that this was bad behavior, but she never seemed to care.

  And then one day when my parents were out of town and I was in charge, things got worse. This is probably an indication that I should not be in charge. At least not in charge of my little sister, Arianna, and my sometimes-demon-possessed dog.

  My sister had taken Georgie to the park with her friend and for some reason—the reason being that she doesn’t listen to instructions—Arianna let Georgie off the leash so the dog could sniff around while Arianna and her friend played. According to my sister, she was about to put Georgie’s leash back on, when suddenly Georgie’s ears perked up and she took off running.

  Mind you, this is a dog who frequently cannot find a piece of hot dog that has been thrown to her on the floor.

  However, she could apparently pick up the scent of the Chihuahua from a quarter-mile away.

  My sister chased after her, but even the smallest dog can outrun the fastest person. And Arianna isn’t the fastest person. It makes no sense. People have much longer legs and are stronger too, but nearly every other animal in the world is faster than us.

  My sister didn’t have a chance of catching our dog. Georgie reached the Chihuahua, a fight ensued, and the Chihuahua did not do well. By the time my sister pulled Georgie off the other dog, he was bleeding. Everyone was very upset about this—except for Georgie.

  The Chihuahua Lady was furious, and my sister was in tears.

  Arianna took Georgie home, put Georgie in her kennel, and gave her another one of those stern lectures that are completely wasted on our dog.

  A few minutes later, the Chihuahua Lady rang our doorbell. When Arianna answered, the Chihuahua Lady asked to speak to her parents.

  Arianna said, “My parents are out of town.”

  “Who is in charge while they’re gone?” the Chihuahua Lady asked.

  “My older brother,” Arianna said.

  (That’s me.)

  I had nothing to do with this whole ordeal. I was at improv practice at the time, but suddenly I was responsible for my possessed dog and my sister, who’d let a demon loose on the world.

  The Chihuahua Lady said she’d be back and threatened to call the police because we couldn’t control our dog.

  I mean, sure, this was the third time Georgie had attacked Archnemesis and the Chihuahua Lady had every right to be mad at Georgie. But you don’t need to arrest a dog.

  My sister called me while I was at improv practice and told me what had happened. And while my sister talked, all I could think was: The police are going to come, take away my dog, and send her to dog jail. Maybe they’ll even put her down. And I’m the one in charge of everything while my parents are out of town. I’m the one who’s going to have to bail Georgie out of dog jail. She’s going to have a record. She’ll never be able to hold down a job now. Or worse, I’m going to have to explain to my parents that we no longer have a dog.

  I remembered hearing somewhere that the police can’t come into your house unless they have a warrant.

  I don’t know whether this applies in the case of dog attacks, because I don’t have a lot of experience with law enforcement. (Take my word for it.)

  I figured, if we just didn’t let the police inside, then they couldn’t take our dog. This strategy was our best option, at least until our parents came home and dealt with the problem. Then it would be their problem.

  I told my sister, “If the police come to the house, don’t let them in.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  But she obviously had a problem listening to instructions or she wouldn’t have let the dog off the leash in the first place, so I felt the need to repeat myself with louder, more specific instructions. “If someone knocks on the door, look out the peephole. If anyone on the doorstep looks like the police or a SWAT team or is wearing a uniform of any kind, do not open the door!”

  Right after I said all this, I realized there are certain things you shouldn’t say in a crowded area.

  The doctor says my highly contagious diarrhea will last for months.

  My pet crocodile got loose again.

  And lastly,

  If the police show up at the house, don’t let them in.

  No one on my improv team asked what was going on. They clearly thought I lived a pretty rad life and were too afraid to ask.

  Fortunately, the police never showed up.

  In case you’re reading this book right now, thank you, Chihuahua Lady, for not sending Georgie to dog jail. I’m sorry that she keeps trying to kill your dog.

  A couple of years later, we got our second dog, Poppy, from a shelter. She’s frequently demonic around us, especially if you try to pick her up, but the upside is that she hasn’t tried to kill any other dogs (yet). Unlike Georgie, whose ancestors were bred to kill vermin, Poppy was bred for only one thing: looking cute. It is the only skill she has.

  On the downside, Poppy will never protect us in an attack. She would lick invaders instead of biting them, and our cats could beat her up if they wanted. But at least we don’t have to worry about the police taking her to dog jail. That’s where we got her from. She’s already done her time.

  So what I’m saying is, get a dog that was bred to be a low achiever. They’ll get you into less trouble.

  Chapter 11

  My Haunting Haunted House Hour

  Why do we like scary things? Fear isn’t a good emotion. If we were all given a choice between being afraid and not being afraid, I feel like “not being afraid” should be everyone’s choice. But for some reason people still pay money to watch scary movies and go to haunted houses.

  How did people even come up with the idea for the first haunted house?

  I think haunted houses are fine. I don’t wan
t to brag or anything, but since the age of sixteen, I’ve never been in a haunted house that scared me. Granted, all the haunted houses I’ve been in were free, and didn’t make me sign a waiver.

  I will admit that I was terrified of haunted houses as a little kid. Once when I was trick-or-treating, I came across a house where they’d turned their garage into a haunted house—or in this case, a haunted garage.

  I walked in, saw someone lying on the floor like they were dead, and I turned around and ran all the way home. Halloween was over.

  But after that, whenever I saw a haunted house, I kept telling myself that none of the things I was seeing were real. And when I grew up, that idea stuck with me.

  When you realize the severed hand is made of plastic, all the tension you previously felt disappears. Or maybe I don’t get scared ’cause I just don’t feel emotions anymore, who knows. Anyway, I still get startled at the jump scares, but since they don’t stab you or anything, it’s always awkward afterward.

  That said, there is one haunted house experience that happened during my senior year of high school that I’ll never forget. It was probably one of the most traumatizing things I’ve ever seen, and also, it’s hard to forget it because I made a video about it.