My weekend? Pretty good, other than when the dogs dug up my dead cat. Yours?
I KNOW. How ludicrous is my life? How ludicrous is poor Frannie's death? He never did like those dogs. Guess who got the last laugh in THAT relationship.
When Francis died on Friday, I had to come home and become June Gardens, Grave Digger. And I do not know if you've ever dug a hole like that, but MAN is that hard. I mean, I dig holes all the time. I'm always out there in my garden. But a BIG hole?
And apparently the site I chose was brought to me by Alex Haley. Because every three inches there was another ding-dang root. I had to PLY stupid roots out with my shovel, or cut them out with my 1942 clippers. I was sweating like Meat Loaf by the time I was done.
You know when you go to join a gym, and they give you a tour, and they're all, here's the spinning room and here's the weight room? They should have, "Out back, here, is the pet grave digging area. We add new roots every week!"
I wanted to put Francis near his angry chair, only, you know, outside the house. My mistake was to put him on the INSIDE of the fence, where the dogs were, and not outside. Because yesterday when I ventured into the back yard, and saw the dirt thrown hither and yon, and SAW POOR FRANCIS…
Well. It was traumatic.
They didn't drag him around the yard, thank heavens. That archeological team just found him and reported the results to National Geographic or whatever. And do you know I tried to elicit Edsel's help with that hole in the first place? He had been standing there with his mouth gaping, watching me, and I actually got down on all fours and dug like a dog, and said, "Come on, Edsel! Help me dig a hole!"
But Edsel kind of whined and placed one delicate paw in the dirt, then said, "Eds just got clawns clip at day care. Not wish to dirtee."
Oh, but when digging the hole was on his OWN time! SURE! Then he could mess those precious "clawns" up.
I am irritated with the dogs right now. Can you tell?
So anyway, I called Marvin. Have you ever noticed the only times I call Marvin are to say things like there's a scorpion under the corner cabinet, or Tallulah's missing, or my dead cat has been dug up? Who probably enjoys my number flashing on his screen?
So I tell him this lovely tale and I say, "I really don't think I can bear to, you know, excavate Fran and move him to a new place. Can you come do it? I'll dig the hole. I just need someone to move him."
"I'll come dig the new hole," said Marvin. "Geez, how long has he been in there, again?"
"He died on Friday," I said, "and on the third day, he rose again."
We toyed with the idea that maybe Fran was trying to rise from the grave because he was pissed off about the kitten, and we discussed how the dogs managed to move that giant, heavy St. Francis statue I had put over the cat, and anyway, in due time Marvin came over and did the deed. And he got to meet Roger Sterling, whose obligatory blurry photo I will add now:
Anyway, Marvin buried Franics–again–around the corner, so really Fran is even closer to his angry chair than he was before. He inexplicably put a giant flat weight on top of the site, which is a lovely tribute that makes no sense. I guess he really was worried Francis was doing the kicking of the soil.
So that's the dirt. Bah.