“Hey, do you want to see four dead mice and a dead chipmunk?” my dad asks while we’re eating lunch. I’ve just arrived in Michigan for my nephew’s graduation.
“Where are they?” I ask, thinking they’ve just been caught in a trap. “Attic? Garage?”
“Basement,” my mom says, with a roll of her eyes.
“Why do you have these in the basement?” I ask.
“I’m cultivating dermestid beetles,” my dad announces proudly.
“And why are you cultivating dermestid beetles?”
“So I’ll have enough to clean the deer skeleton I picked up,” he replies, as if it should’ve been obvious.
“And where is this deer skeleton?”
He stops eating and points at the floor.
“Under the porch?” I ask, now imagining a rotting carcass as I put a fork full of sauerkraut in my mouth.
He nods.
“Did you get the whole thing?” my mom asks, surprisingly supportive for someone who prides herself on an immaculate house.
“Close,” he says. “I was able to pick up almost everything but I think I missed a few ribs.”
There are a number of relevant questions… Where did he find this skeleton? What does he plan to do with it? Exactly how did he pick it up? How long has it been under the porch?
Instead, I settle on, “Isn’t it stinky?” since I’m now sniffing around like a pig seeking truffles.
“Nah,” he says. “The maggots did a pretty good job with it. The beetles are just to finish the job so it’s perfectly clean.”
Of course.
Isn’t this how YOUR visits home sound – or is your dad not a biologist?
pithypants 