I returned home from work today to discover Otis had weaseled into our pantry where we keep the dry groceries. Crushed lasagna, spaghetti, rigatoni noodles blanketed the entry way and kitchen. For an extra kick, chewed potatoes sprinkled the hallway.
Dumbfounded, I went blank as Otis approached me in the hallway. When he realized I wasn't bending down to pet him, instead bending down to pick up, what used to be, my running hat, his enthusiasm disappeared.
He slinked around the corner. With the only sound being the side of his ass hitting the ground as he slipped on the piles of cardboard and food.
Animal interaction has to be one of the only forms of testament to your true temperament. I'm convinced, on judgement day, there's no bells and whistles. It's just Peter. With a VCR. Replaying highlights of every encounter you've ever had with a bird shitting on your suede jacket or a cat puking in your shoes.
Scolding an animal laying in the same position a cooked pig with an apple in its mouth - surrounded by food even - was something out of I Love Lucy.
I started in on exaggerated finger pointing and phony scowling. Before I could finish explaining to him his list of faults, for good measure, he peed himself.
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