My husband? Yes, he was a spy. He loved his country, enough to sneak around and snitch on folks like a rat. That’s how patriotism has got to be sometimes. Like that time when I was in the bathroom trying to… Never mind. Suffice it to say, my husband was a spy 24×7.
When he first became homeless, after I forgot my own love of country and lost my head and kicked him out of the house, he lived in a cardboard box in the back yard. Outside the bathroom window, now that I think of it. A nice big cardboard box.
You see where I’m going with this.
Fact: The gym bag was waterproof. Important during the rainy season.
Fact: My husband, technically, wasn’t naked, as he had one of my merry widows wrapped around him, though not fastened.
Should you try to make coffee or fry an egg in a gym bag? In retrospect, no. Wait for the rain to stop and build a little campfire in the dog run. Begging at the back door won’t do any good, storm or no storm. And move the damn bag away from the down spouts. Show some common sense.
Plus, anyone who tries to climb a ladder while in a gym bag, to peek in a window during a raging storm, deserves whatever befalls him.
Fact: The old scarring on his body was, yes, caused by accidents, him being a clumsy guy, though wait, the big one on his forehead was another example of me being unpatriotic.
Fiction: Drago and Dajbog (our pit bulls) would not attack a man for taking their food. Well, yes they would, but probably not my husband. The wounds seemed too deep and ragged to be inflicted by squirrel or skunk, but a raccoon could have done it. As for an opossum, I don’t know.
Was I responsible for my husband’s death in any way? No. But just in some cosmic case I need to make restitution, I’ve signed up for a yoga class at Gold’s and I’m going to carry my leotard to it in the gym bag, once the bag is released by the police and thoroughly cleaned.