Millhouse is going to be royally ticked.
And my guess is that Crush won't be too pleased either.
Today is the day when my side of the family comes for presents, Christmas dinner, and the sacred Monopoly and/or Risk and/or Dutch Blitz game.
Crush is our houseguest. We are fish-sitting for a little friend, whom I will call Mister Kott-er. He sits in a very tiny container on top of the piano. (Crush, that is, not our little friend. That would be weird.) He's been cozily nestled in there amid the fake snow and garland, with a nice view of the fireplace.
But today, people will arrive, loud people, musical people, people that pound on any piano in sight. And I would really hate to explain to our little friend that Crush had a heart attack during a rousing rendition of Moonlight Sonata. So he will be going on top of the armoire in our bedroom.
Millhouse will be in that same room.
All those feet wandering through our tiny home - he hates feet. So very much. And unless those feet are all clad in steel-toed workboots, serious injury will take place. And then Millhouse will fly again, which he hasn't done in a very long time. It's possible he's too old for it, and then he also would have a heart attack, and we'd have a dual funeral for both him and Crush.
I am too busy this week to do a dual pet funeral.
So they're both going into the bedroom for the day, where they can eye one another suspiciously.
It's a tough day to be a pet.
