Anyhow, the crazy extends to my husband, as well, I fear. You all know how I have a thing against bunnies and squirrels and dolphins? Well, here we go again. Same play, Act II.
There's this OWL. Thankfully it's not a real owl, 'cause I find those kind of creepy, too. It's a statuary owl. You know, the concrete kind that people stick in the backyard? Nolan had one of these when I moved in after we got married. My first thought back then? What's my big, dumb, blond, 28 year-old husband doing with the statue of an owl in the backyard?
Well, as you can imagine, there's a story.
The day after we got married and I moved to Amarillo from DFW (CULTURE shock, anyone?), I began almost immediately putting things that didn't make the cut into a pile. The decopage picture of a bullfighter. The picture of John Wayne in the bedroom (IN THE BEDROOM!). The horrific Garth Brooks color block shirts, western hats and Wranglers, the beer stein on the mantle - all outta there.
Nolan adjusted brilliantly to the Monet and Renoir prints I put up on the walls, the floral arrangemets on the mantle. He even made the switch to Levis without too much fuss, but he wouldn't part with the owl. He WOULD NOT give it up.
And I loathed that owl. It's eyes followed me when I was in the backyard.
So one of my friends stole it. We did a whole ransom thing. Pictures of the owl teetering on the precipice of a high wall, threatening note attached. Nolan didn't think they were funny. He wanted the owl back. Fine. The owl went back to it's home in the flower bed, just outside the back door, where it could pounce on me the minute I walked outside. I stewed for the next 9 years.
Last Friday, when I was at our old house doing a last walk through and cleaning for the new owners (everyone deserves to move into a clean house), I saw the owl. Still in the flowerbed, glowering at me.
I laughed mockingly. I win, you bastard, I thought. I outlasted your concrete ass.
And I was ever so smug about the whole thing. Until yesterday.
When Nolan peers through the blinds to the backyard and asks, "Where's the owl?"
(Then the boys have this exchange)
Aaron. What owl?
Ethan. (eating his dinner, casually, as if this question was asked everyday) Frank.
Aaron. Oh. That owl.
(What the hell? They'd named it? Anyway... )
I thought, Shoot, darn, heck, son of a gun. (Or similar.) I had thought I was home free.
He made me CALL the new owners and ask if we could come get the abandoned owl this weekend. She said yes so quickly that my disappointment had to have showed in my voice. She sounded relieved. She didn't want that creepy-ass thing in her yard, either, obviously.
So we have to go get 'Frank' tomorrow. *heavy sigh* That thing will haunt me to the end of my days. And he's going to be so SMUG about it, too... His stone beak curved into a smirk. *shivers*
Yeah, I know. Cuh- ray- zee.