I’ve long suspected that the North American Booze Hound with whom I share a home knows where I keep the key to the fridge and helps herself to the frosty cold beverages while I’m slaving away to keep her fed, but I’ve never been able to prove it, since a few more empties strewn about the house when I get home aren’t really noticeable (imagine trying to discern a few extra grains of sand on a vast beach).
Thanks to the recent necessity of her having to wear The Cone Of Shame, however, I believe I have the evidence I need:
Above: She is SO busted!
I guess I’ll have to start keeping the beer up in the attic or something, though I imagine that whatever plan I come up with (Operation Dry Dog), she’ll figure it out in short order, necessitating a perhaps-daily alteration in hiding spots. She’s a sharp one, she is, and I fear it will take cleverness far beyond me to stay a step ahead of her. My only hope is that my love for lager will unleash some heretofore unknown creativity within me.
Let the battle of wits be joined.
Cone Of Shame information: I think she may have been bitten on the eye by a spider. It heals up pretty well over a day or two, then I get home in the afternoon to find that she’s gotten it off and re-aggravated it, starting the whole process over again. Plus, she walks around behind me poking me in the back of the legs with it … this is getting old.
Above: I’m thinking about just riveting a steel eye-patch into her skull, like that guy in Water World.
6 hours ago