Image Warning: This post contains images of simulated stuffed animal violence.
I’m not talking about Major General Smedley Butler. He died in 1940. I mean the US Marine bulldog mascot named after the good general. He’s a real, live bulldog with the rank of Lance Corporal in the Corps, which outranks all the newly minted privates graduating from boot camp, a distinction that is not lost on them.
The background story here is that I’ve been dogged (heh) by a little point of contention in my marriage for the last five or six years. Gruntessa collects stuffed animals, and at some point she decided that, in addition to the several dozen decorative pillows that every woman puts on her marriage bed, we needed an animal to ‘guard’ the bed during the days.
She chose a furry, white hen that was originally a gag gift from my sister, who actually has a pretty funny thing going on gifting and re-gifting breathtakingly ugly pig-shaped pottery, cat teapots, cow gravy boats, large metal yard chickens and the like. For the last half-decade, I’ve put up with this, but I made a mistake by complaining about it back when I was blogging on the Conservative Treehouse. They gave me a lot of grief, and for years afterward, Waltzingmtilda would still tease me about it with something like: “You still sleeping with a chicken, Romeo?” But not anymore.
While in San Diego picking up Grunt son #2 from boot camp, I bought a Smedley stuffed bulldog mascot ‘for’ Gruntessa. She loved it. When we got back, I quickly put Smedley on our bed and ‘lost’ the chicken. But not for long.
WTH? How did that chicken get back there? Gruntessa must have put it back. This will not stand. Smedley is nothing but Always Faithful, and he answers to me.
So, happy ending. Finally. Until…
Dammit, Smedley! You’re a Marine! This betrayal will not go unremembered, Mutt!