Monday evening, we were watching Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles and Fred suddenly realized that when he’d stopped at his mother’s house on the way home from work to help them with their new computer, they’d given him a bag of sausage and he’d left the bag in the car.
(They like to repay him for computer help with food. This is how we end up with venison sitting in the freezer for months and months every year.)
He went off to find it and put it in the freezer, and then I couldn’t tell what he was doing, but I suspected he’d walked by his computer and felt the sudden, urgent need to check the forum he hangs out on.
“COME ON!” I bellowed. “I WANT TO WATCH THE SHOW!” I’m usually okay with him wandering off for five or ten minutes when we’re watching a show, because I have a magazine to read while I’m waiting, but due to my recent cancellation of People and US, I had nothing to read.
There was silence from the other end of the house.
“HEY!” I yelled at the top of my lungs with the sharp tone that he can hear from as far away as the very back of the back forty.
“What?”
“I WANT TO WATCH THE SHOW, COME ON!”
He walked into the living room looking down at something he held in his hand. “I’m trying to figure out what this is,” he said. “It was lying on the kitchen floor.”
“What does it look like?” I asked.
“I think it’s a dead maggot,” he said, and held it out to me. “It has these weird little nubbins on it, like the beginning of legs or something. Where do you think it came from?”
“Maybe there’s a portal to Hell in the kitchen and it opened long enough to drop a dead maggot onto the kitchen floor,” I offered, then looked at what was in his hand.
“This concerns me,” he said, looking concerned. “I don’t want maggots to start showing up in our kitchen, that’s just gross.”
“Indeed,” I said. “We wouldn’t want to detract from the beauty of the muddy cat footprints on the counters. But you don’t need to worry. That’s not a maggot.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s an eye from a potato. It fell off this afternoon when I was peeling potatoes and fell onto the floor. Skittles started playing with it, and I forgot to pick it up when she was done.”
“Oh.”
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Joe Bob is a Very Bad Boy who escaped the yard twice yesterday, and after the second time (when I stomped out to see if he was maybe hanging out in the old chicken coop, and turned around to see him staring at me all casual-like from the top of the well house outside the fence like “Hey lady, what up?”), I made him come inside and left the door shut all afternoon until Tommy politely pointed out that HE was not a bad boy, and HE always stayed in the yard when he was supposed to (well, mostly), so why couldn’t HE go out into the back yard, so I flung the back door open and figured if Joe Bob ran away THERE ARE ALWAYS OTHER CATS. And then Joe Bob wasn’t even interested in going outside.
Of course.
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Bad Boy.
One very, very Good Boy, flanked by two very, very Bad Boys.
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Previously
2007: We call him Popeye when he does this.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.