Vindication
We had a compressor go out at work this morning, so Jules and I had to call DJ to talk us through taking it apart and putting it back together, then he called later to check on it and took the opportunity to give a Not-A-Baby M report--wonderful, loving Grandma's house, not missing her dad, mom, or favorite honorary aunt at all. Honestly, this child. She's 4 now, and she does not even pretend to be a baby, she pretends to be a load of dirt, and requests that we be backhoes (she means front-end loader, but we'll let somebody from her preschool correct her on her construction equipment anatomy) and shovel her off to bed when she goes limp on our laps after bedtime stories. Then DJ asked how things were at the house. I told him the plants were doing great, his couch is very comfortable, and Tig is being Tig. I let him draw his own conclusion there. And he said:
"Are you wearing your snakeboots yet?"
The answer to that is yes, I had packed my hunting boots to go back to the house this evening, because Tig aims low. But how would he know that? Several extremely suspicious questions later, it comes to light that Tig has run off no less than six cat sitters in the last 6 years, first the neighbor kids, then the neighbor adults, then paid professionals. He doesn't like people in his house. YOU DAMN HUMANS GET OFF MY LAWN. And DJ avoided revealing this to me because he was afraid I'd refuse to take the job. He forgets that my favorite adventures are the ones that are just a little bit horrible. They make better stories.
So I asked DJ how to buy Tig's love, and I will be doling out teaspoons of ocean whitefish-flavored "pate" whenever he should be welcoming me into his home. It may make zero difference in his behavior, but I'm already feeling 300% better because the fact that this is the norm for him means he's not sick or hurt or having a nervous breakdown, he's just being a total ass. And I can just treat him like a rattlesnake, and give him a wide berth. I've claimed the TV room for myself, he can have the rest of the house for the evening. I've got cookies 'n' cream and my laptop and a wooden door between me and Damien out there, though he periodically comes to the door and yells at me.
"Are you wearing your snakeboots yet?"
The answer to that is yes, I had packed my hunting boots to go back to the house this evening, because Tig aims low. But how would he know that? Several extremely suspicious questions later, it comes to light that Tig has run off no less than six cat sitters in the last 6 years, first the neighbor kids, then the neighbor adults, then paid professionals. He doesn't like people in his house. YOU DAMN HUMANS GET OFF MY LAWN. And DJ avoided revealing this to me because he was afraid I'd refuse to take the job. He forgets that my favorite adventures are the ones that are just a little bit horrible. They make better stories.
So I asked DJ how to buy Tig's love, and I will be doling out teaspoons of ocean whitefish-flavored "pate" whenever he should be welcoming me into his home. It may make zero difference in his behavior, but I'm already feeling 300% better because the fact that this is the norm for him means he's not sick or hurt or having a nervous breakdown, he's just being a total ass. And I can just treat him like a rattlesnake, and give him a wide berth. I've claimed the TV room for myself, he can have the rest of the house for the evening. I've got cookies 'n' cream and my laptop and a wooden door between me and Damien out there, though he periodically comes to the door and yells at me.