After a drug deal-like exchange in a rainy parking lot, Maury has made it in to the house and is patiently hanging out on the washer. Twice now, I’ve walked in there to start a load, and then left because…well… there’s a bear on my washing machine so…maybe later.
It turns out that he’s Canadian, so he’s been nothing but polite. I haven’t cleaned any clothes, but I did give Maury a good dusting and wipe down. He had some cobweb boogies in his snout and his mouth was super dusty. I don’t know what modern taxidermy does, but Maury’s 1960’s structure lets you see all the way to the back of his cardboard looking brain cavity. Yes, I totally took a flashlight to him, hoping my friend’s grandpa stored treasure inside his bear head. No luck with that, but no giant bugs either so win win.
The cats don’t seem to care about things I leave on the washer, but MomBert has managed to discover Maury. I let her find the last blog post herself. Either that or my sister ratted me out.
Officially, I’m going with Maury Bearassed or M. Bearassed. Yep.
MomBert doesn’t have to live with Maury, but the cats do, so introductions seemed necessary. (I let the girls get high first. It was Friday night, c’mon.) The cats are currently living with Bucky, W.Charles Marmota, Ross the Holiday Armadillo, Shaggy, and some other random bits and pieces so they’re used to this.
Miles was so unimpressed that it hurt a little.
Miles: “Seriously? Are you fucking kidding me?”
The girls were more enthusiastic.
The girls: “OMG, bear! Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Your. Breath. Is. Awful.”
Bear breath doesn’t smell good, I guess.