I came home from date night at Green Tea, where we snarfed down on salt-and-pepper tofu and crispy beef in Peking sauce, to find Omo banished from under the house by a growling Fabian.
Hm. I have a full belly. Let’s investigate. What could go wrong?
Fabian was nose deep into the guts of a possum (not opossum).
Cransh cronsh crunch munch.
I locked Fab under the house while I fed Omo. I wanted that snout fully blood-free before it came near me. I mean, Fab was dissecting the poor critter. You know those squeaky squirrel toys that you stuff into a plushy tree? It’s like that but with soft internal organs and a warm, gaping abdomen.
When Fabian appeared at the door, I saw that he brought the head and forearms to his outside bed.
With the dog tongs, I tossed the head and shoulders away. Fabian fetched it. Re-toss. Re-fetch. Re-blergh.
In the middle of the night, when the ghosts of small bladders wake their victims, I saw Fabian outside curled up with his new toy: semi-carcass.
Aw. Ew. Blergh.
As I left to get my bike from the kill room, I heard the crunch of leftovers:
See the pink tongue? Thank me later.