Priesthood of the Disposal of Unwanted Critters by Nancy L. Eady

 Have you ever noticed the many hierarchies that surround us? A simple example is the hierarchy of the line—the first person in line goes first, the second person gets to go next, etc. There are even a few of us who will, on occasion, step forward to correct a person who dares to challenge the hierarchy by cutting in line. Such an event follows the principle of proportional palatability – the chances of being corrected, and the violence used in said correction, are directly proportional to the amount of time spent in line and the importance of the item the line is for.

At our house, we have hierarchies too. The Priesthood of the Disposal of Unwanted Critters is one of them.

The first and foremost High Priest of the Disposal of Unwanted Critters is Mark. If he is home, the hierarchy stops there. I’m not sure where the rule is set out – in the United States Code, the Code of Alabama, the Eleventh Commandment, the United Nations Charter or the Code of Hammurabi – but somewhere it says that the male of the house shall remove all unwanted critters, dead or alive, from the household if he is at home. It makes perfect sense to me and Kayla, although Mark may not agree. Unfortunately, unwanted critters are notoriously inconsiderate, and they do appear when Mark is not around.

When it comes to killing and removing spiders and roaches, if Kayla and I are home alone, I become the High Priestess of the Disposal of Unwanted Critters.  And I hate killing spiders and roaches – not because I think they deserve to live in peace, but because deep down I know that at any minute they can grow taller than a house and kill me along with all that I love or, even worse, actually fly (roach) or run (spider) on me. I was over 40 before I ever killed one – and that out of desperation because Kayla and I were alone.

Over the years, we have owned eight dogs. Only one of them cared about birds. Mandy was an unusual dog anyhow: a basset hound/husky mix. She had many personality quirks, one of which was killing any bird brave enough to venture onto the screened-in porch. The first time it happened, Kayla and I weren’t quick enough, and in less than ten seconds, the poor mockingbird that had, alas, strayed from its normal habitat onto the porch, was lying on its back with its feet straight up in the classical dead bird pose. Kayla showed up right afterwards, having heard the scuffle. I was shivering with the willies and asked her what we were going to do with the bird. She rolled her eyes, at which point she was appointed Acolyte in charge of the Disposal of Dead Birds, which she did with aplomb. Alas, she refuses to take on the mantle of High Priestess to deal with spiders and roaches, leaving me stuck with the job if Mark is not present. 

How do you use hierarchies in your writing, or do you?