The Perpetrator Blames The Victim

Two days after Scarlett's Unfortunate Enclosation, we were on the way to our new favorite casino. The Pony was in the back seat, and I was trapped beside Farmer H. That's because my knees don't like the back seat, or I would gladly give The Pony the honor of riding shotgun.

We had gone about five miles when talk turned to Scarlett's trauma on Sunday, being closed in the garage for 4 1/2 hours.

"Yeah. And when I backed out to take the car to get gas this morning, I ran over a dog bed and a folding chair that she drug out!"

"What? We don't have a dog bed."

"Well. A cat bed, maybe. I don't know where we got it. Somebody gave it to us."

"Dad. She probably wanted something to lay on that wasn't the cold concrete floor."

"Folding chair? You mean like a lawn chair?"

"No. A metal folding chair. I think I brought it from the locker."

"I don't think Scarlett was planning to sit on a folding chair. She had a bed, you know! It must have been piled where it fell off. It probably scared her."

"She shouldn't have been messing with stuff. That's why I keep the garage doors closed."

"Too bad you closed her INSIDE the closed doors."

"She was hidin' in there."

"I doubt that. Wait! You backed over a metal folding chair? Are the tires okay? I don't want to have a flat and have to sit beside the highway. Did you check the air in the tires before we left?"

"The tires are fine, HM. I checked."

"No you didn't!"

"I drove to town and back, and they were just fine."

Farmer H has no qualms about stating something as truth when he knows it's not.