No, this isn't another tale of horror from the toilet seat. It's a story of responsibility. Or lack thereof.
Wednesday morning, I awoke in my OPC (Old People Chair). The clock read 7:10. Well! That's certainly later than my usual time to go to bed. Last I recall, that clock had said 5:30. I thought I was getting up to ascend the stairs, but I guess I fell asleep.
Farmer H had already left for town. I made a disturbing discovery in the master bathroom. A dead cricket was stretched across the middle of the three rugs, between the sink and the toilet. Beside the big triangle tub. It was obvious to me that Farmer H had stepped on a cricket. AND LEFT IT THERE!
No. You can't take Farmer H's side. You can't convince me that the cricket died of old age, or screwed the lid off one of Farmer H's medicine vials and overdosed. There were no blood and guts, but the cricket looked a little flat. His legs were sprawled out like a frog.
You may recall that I have no fondness for crickets. I abhor them. No way was I picking up that beast before changing into jammies and crawling into bed to sleep until 11:00. This cricket was Farmer H's doing (doing-in), and he could take care of it. Besides, I think I've voiced my opinion that such a duty is a man's job.
Well. By now you understand how Farmer H's mind works. He thinks that if he pretends he doesn't SEE his own messes, they don't exist FOR HIM. But that I should notice, and take care of them. Like wiping off the toilets seat, carrying paper plates from beside his recliner to the kitchen, and tossing out expired milk that he has held, read the date on, noticed the chunkiness, commented to me about, and put back in FRIG II.
I heard Farmer H come back into the Mansion sometime during my interrupted slumber, and heard him in the bathroom peeing. Because he never closes the door, except in the morning darkness for his shower. When I got up later, that cricket was still there. In fact, it was there all afternoon and evening and night and the next morning. When I decided I'd had enough of stepping over it, and scooped it up with precious toilet paper, and flushed it.
Don't think I let Farmer H skate. Heh, heh. I'm sure you know I didn't.
"You're welcome for me throwing away your dead cricket."
"What? Dead cricket? I don't know what you're talking about."
"You've stepped over it for two days. I guess you thought it was MY JOB to pick it up."
"I didn't see no cricket."
"I'm sure you did. In the bathroom, right there in the middle of the floor, on the rug."
"I don't look down where I'm walking, HM!" [How prophetic, with his driveway fall to come the very next day!]
"If you didn't see it, then I'm sure you would have stepped on it, because it's right where you walk, in the middle of the floor, and gotten it stuck to your foot. It hasn't moved in two days!"
"Huh. I never saw it."
The Pony came out of his room. "Cricket?"
"I'm sure YOU saw it, too, when you took your bath for three hours!"
"I didn't see any cricket."
Sure. I must have the vision (AND SELF-CONTROL) of a military sniper.