Six am found me explaining the difference between my house and a bed and breakfast to some very frustrated travelers. What I found so interesting was their fierce belief that I was somehow putting them on and that this WAS the bed and breakfast they were looking for.
At what point would you, as a traveler, realize that perhaps you were off your path? Would it be after the walk through the graveyard of lost pets, the climb up the steps onto my (admittedly) rickety front porch, or upon meeting yours truly in a dressing gown at the front door? Would it be whilst listening to the cacophony emanating from the third floor (the specimens in the laboratory loathe the doorbell)? Or perhaps when the pygmy yeti took it upon itself to retch across the parlor after eating a bowl of plain, dry Cheerios cereal? I would have thought Bubo tearing up a rat in the front window or Mordecai playing his sitar from the Widow’s Walk would have done it. I underestimated these folk.
These intrepid travelers only turned back towards the street (after my incredibly simple and succint directions, I might add), when one of the gargoyles relieved itself directly onto the porch.
A hail of pebbles is disconcerting. As is the stone gargoyle above you moving across the house east, into the sun. They left quickly.
I have thus been cleaning the parlor rug. Between the flivvervaats and the yeti, baking soda and vinegar may not be enough. It might take petrol and a match.
