The Buck Stops Here

Being the staid, boring schlub that I am, I have a very set routine in my everyday activities.  My morning schedule of events is unwavering, as is that of my afternoon.  I leave work at 4:00 pm, arrive home between 4:15 and 4:20*, and give the hell-hound big belly rubs upon entering Casa de Acorn.  I’m well aware of the chaotic world around me, and the constancy of my day-to-day behavior is quite comforting, providing an almost zen-like serenity against the background din of The Outside.

Things do come up, however, that require straying from the well-trodden path, and a few days ago, I found myself needing to run home at lunch.  “What a pleasant surprise this will be for Indy!” I said aloud in the car.  “Normally she waits patiently by the door all day in anticipation of her beloved belly scratching!  Her joy at this unexpected additional round of scratching will be quite amusing to watch!”

Imagine my shock, then, when I walked through the door to see this:

Above:  I’m not really surprised by the interspecies aspect, but based on her crotch-sniffing behavior around human females, I would have guessed she was a lesbian.  Whatever.

I was, of course, quite taken aback, as was she, apparently, for she just stared at me like a deer in the bed-lights.  After several seconds, I started stammering.  “I … I … oh god.”  “Roh, rit …” she mumbled.  Finally, I said something about going to the computer room for a few minutes to check my email, thinking that I’d at least be providing an opportunity for her to show her guest out in the least awkward manner.  After what I felt was a sufficient amount of time, I went back to the bedroom to have what would surely be an uncomfortable conversation at best, only to find this:

Above:  Ole Buck’s got a lot of chutzpah, I’ll admit.  And Indy can really give the stinkeye when she wants to.

I kind of snapped at that point, screaming something about venison steaks and deer jerky and going all “Bambi meets Godzilla” on him.  He must have taken the hint, because he hopped up and bounded past me out the door.  I turned to the whore-hound, and red-faced, seething with anger, managed to say “Not in my bed.  NOT.  IN.  MY.  BED.”

We haven’t really spoken about it since, and while it’s perhaps not the healthiest solution, I imagine that we’ll just bury the whole incident deep in the dark recesses of our minds.

You can bet your ass I’ll never walk into that house unannounced again, though.

* Duuuuuude ...