Rassmussen’s Got a Girlfriend

I’m not sure, but I can think of no other reason for the drastic and sudden change.  Rasmussen’s got a girlfriend!  It is as clear as the creases across my forehead.

The first sign was when he changed his clothes two days in a row, and he didn’t just grab fresher ones from the dirty clothes pile next to his bed either.  He actually went to the trouble of moving the baseball bat, tire iron, golf clubs and rubber boot collection from in front of the closet door to retrieve clean, wrinkle-free clothes.

At first, I thought my immaculate grooming habits had rubbed off on him, but alas, not even I buy that fairy tale.  One does not change a gargoyle unless he wishes to be changed, and this gargoyle tends to be more obstinate than most, or so I am told.  If my good breeding were the deciding factor, he would have changed months ago, slowly, taking his time to acclimate to each phase of the alteration, not this blink of an eye change.

He followed the clean clothes with asking me to buy him a stick of deodorant that would not clash with the Stetson cologne my mother sent him for Christmas last year.  Then he started asking if his skate shorts matched his Hawaiian print t-shirt.  That particular time, it did, but we won’t talk about the cutoff jeans and pin-striped oxford incident.  I shudder just to think of it.  I believe the tube socks with the bright green stripes might have been the real problem but deemed it best to start all over nonetheless.

I finally asked if he was seeing someone special and was emphatically told to mind my own business.  Well, let me tell you this,  after I got over my little huff—or pissy-fit as Rassmussen calls it—I went on a little covert fact finding mission.  I was so proud of myself, with my night-vision goggles, black stealth-mode ensemble and the most darling little, black, hiking boots you have ever seen.  I even applied my eyeliner in a super wide strip to cut down on glare.  It didn’t do much for my appearance, but since the ski mask covered all but my eyes and nose, I was confident no one I knew would recognize me.

Rassmussen’s first stop was Mrs. Meadow’s house.  She must have been adopting out cats again because he came from around back, where she has a luxurious three-story cat house for her babies, with a monster size fluff-ball tucked under his arm.  I hid behind her rosebush hedge until he had cleared the corner and headed toward the 7-11 convenience store.  Bad idea on my part.

Note to self: buy gloves and more Band-Aids.

At the 7-11, he gave a wave through the window at the manager who brought him a super-sized Big Gulp and a king-size Snickers.  Rassmussen tucked the candy in his shirt pocket, and with cat under one arm and drink in the opposite hand, he looked up into the starry night and was gone.  He had done the one thing I had prayed he wouldn’t.  He flew away as gracefully and expediently as only an experienced gargoyle can.

I grabbed my night binoculars and quickly located him flying due east.  Hoping my high school track and field days would serve me well, I sprinted toward the Kendal farm, hoping to cut across their field, but alas, age has taken its toll on these old bones.  As I attempted to leap the barbed-wire fence, using a nearby knoll as a springboard, my nifty hiking boots got tangled in the top strand and down I went, face first, into a freshly baked pile of goo.  A nearby cow bellowed as if taking credit for the odoriferous creation.

My mission had been scrubbed by a black and white bovine.

Rassmussen’s secret was still safe, for now, but I would not give up.  Once I had limped home, taken several hot showers, given myself a facial and brushed my teeth with industrial strength cleaner, I went to work on a new, more brilliant plan to meet the ever-elusive gargoylian girlfriend.

Mark my words:  I will be back!