The fox in the garage is asking for it. It = death. He’s been chewing the hoses like nobody’s business and I have reason to believe he spilled lawnmower gasoline in the litterbox because the other day when Terrence did his business his paws got all gasoline-y and he tracked gasoline through the house and into my bedroom. I tried to clean it but you can never entirely get rid of a mess like that.
On Sundays I smoke cigarettes in my bedroom. All day long. And when I’m drunk on beer I don’t like to get out of bed to put the cigarettes out in the bucket near the closet. So I fling the butts into the bucket. It’s become a hobby of mine and you have to have hobbies if you want to stay busy. If I don’t stay busy, the Fear will consume me. Now, I’m not God, OK. So I miss the bucket from time to time. Pobody’s nerfect. Last Sunday when I was drunk I smoked a cigarette and flung the butt at the bucket but I missed and it must’ve landed on some of that gasoline Terrence tracked in from the garage because a fire started up real quick. I tried to put out the fire with the sleeping bag I’ve been using as a bed sheet, but it was no use. The fire spread to the walls and turned my Heroic Cats™ posters into ashes. I ran into the family room and grabbed Terrence and ran into the garage. And who do you think I saw sitting on top of the litterbox with a hose in his mouth? The fox. And he was smiling, too. (Some animals, like golden retrievers, always look like they’re smiling, but not foxes, so I know he was smiling at my misery.) I said, “You’re asking for it, you know that?” Terrence hissed at him and tried to wiggle out of my arms and attack. But I held him tightly and said, “Not today, Terrence. Let’s make a plan.”
Tags: The Fox in the Garage