I like to crab to my husband. Crab about how he doesn't do the dishes, how he always loses his keys, how he doesn't keep his car clean. If you were to call this "henpecking," you would not be too far off base. I admit it, and I am not proud of it.
Last week, SMH earned himself a "get-out-of-henpecking-free" card for the next, oh, year or so.
He called me at work with news of the horrible discovery he had just made in our backyard: a bloody decapitated cat, with limbs and entrails astrewn. After he hung up the phone, he proceeded to clean it all up, blood and guts and all. Just hearing about it made me gag. Clean it up? No way I could have done it.
We think the culprit was probably a coyote, or maybe one of Oly's killer raccoons.
This is not the first time SMH has had to deal with Oly wildlife. Last summer, he caught and "relocated" a pair of squirrels who came down our chimney. If the two resident deer return to our backyard this year, I am thinking maybe I should quit my day job and become a zookeeper.
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