Gleefully, I scampered to the house to fetch coffee. Inside, Mrs. Curmudgeon showed all signs of having forgotten her husband had been outdoors defending our home. (We really must do more family level zombie drills.)
“Please put on another pot of coffee! We’ve got guests.” I shouted excitedly. (Note: I can make coffee too but her coffee inexplicably tastes better.)
“What? Really.” She glanced about with a defeated look. “The place is a shamble. I don’t want guests.”
“But…” I paused. “Wait a minute; you did know I was out there chasing away trespassers, right?” (We’d been sitting at the same table when I’d seen the approaching truck and tore out of the house like an angry bull.)
“Um… sure.” She nodded vaguely.
Yep. Got it. That’s married life. I could be torn asunder by a horde of biker zombie mutant orangutans on the front lawn and she’d scarcely notice. Especially if she was reading a good book.
“OK fine.” I turned to the fine art of all married couples everywhere… dropping it… and focused on our guests. “Please brew some coffee and stick it in a thermos or something?”
Mrs. Curmudgeon agreed. She started grinding up the day’s second pot of Death Wish coffee. She glanced out at the truck, which was still driving in vague orbits around the field. “So who are they.”
The question made me giddy. Since the very definition of a payment for the killing of an unwanted animal is “bounty”; I’d decided that Florence and Jane, two friendly ladies who looked like someone’s grandma, were “bounty hunters”. I’d been waiting for just that question.
“Bounty hunters!” I enthused.
Mrs. Curmudgeon, who has been married to me long enough to expect statements like that, just shook her head and filled the thermos.
Florence and Jane were entirely unlike this meathead.