Thursday, June 24, 2010

The N.H.B.


That's "N," as in "naked." That's "H," as in "headless." That's "B," as in "Barbie doll."

She lives in our backyard, you know. The furlines greet her every time she lands someplace different around her tree home, and this has caught my attention. It seems to me that I have to pick up the N.H.B. and move her every single time I mow the yard. I always perch her somewhere on the half dead tree that needs to be cut down (except that I can't bear to bring up the subject to the bill payer in the house because that squiggly tree has so much personality, as well as so many bird homes in its branches). The next thing you know, she's back in the grass, risking her plastic limbs in order to instigate more cat investigations.

I am beginning to wonder if she's alive.

Yeah, I said that. Me, the scientifically oriented skeptic of all things supernatural, I just suggested the N.H.B. might be a phenomenon worthy of a Scooby Doo episode. Well, I'm not sure the Mystery Gang would find the requisite sinister culprit and plot, but I do think the N.H.B. would entertain such an inquisitive group of youngens.

This leads me to the idea that I could use the N.H.B. to create a summer mystery for James and Kate to investigate. Um, great idea, but not for my two. Kate still hasn't recovered from the time I jokingly referred to the ice maker dumping sound as "the refrigerator ghost." (I thought it was funny, Ricky thought it was funny, and Katie screeched and has been spooked by it off and on ever since.)

So, dear N.H.B., you and I will continue this little game with the cats by ourselves.





P.S. to the N.H.B.-- Your head is living in a basket full of hen 'n chicks, in case you'd like to mosey over that way and really freak me out!


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