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Well, hellllooo! ” Rory would say in a snooty British accent. “I hope you don’t need a signature because I seem to have misplaced my opposable thumbs.” Eventually the mailman just stopped ringing the bell and would leave the packages on the porch, which was nice because it cut down on awkward small talk.
    Sometimes I’d hide him under the covers (Rory, not the mailman) so that when Victor turned down the bed there was Rory on his pillow, as if to say, “SURPRISE, MOTHERFUCKER! THERE’S A DEAD RACCOON IN YOUR BED AND HE WANTS SOME SNUGGLIN’.” Then Victor would glare at me and make me switch pillows with him.
    Victor can’t understand Rory’s frenzied kind of love, but I think he’s starting to accept that this is my love language. Other women might show their adoration with baked goods or hand-knitted slippers, but mine is channeled through animal corpses. Victor tries to interpret it as best he can but he is a guy who keeps his emotions close to his vest when it comes to dead animals in bed, so honestly it’s hard to know what that man is really thinking. He’s an enigma, that one.
    Last night I realized that Rory was perfectly suited to ride on the cats (as if they were small furry horses and he was a rodeo star) but apparently the cats didn’t realize how awesome it would be and so they were incredibly uncooperative. I tried to create a photomontage of Rory the Rodeo Raccoon but they weren’t having it. (I suspect if my cats had Instagram they’d be all over this, but they don’t so they couldn’t be bothered.) I’d perch Rory on their backs and they’d stand still for a second but by the time I’d backed up and gotten them in focus they’d turn around like, “What are you doing? Why is there a raccoon on my back? Why do they even let you be in charge of things? ” and then they’d just flop over on their sides like a bunch of ingrates who didn’t understand art. Rory would gently tumble onto the floor, which I suspect sent the cats mixed messages because he was still waving his hands in the air like he just didn’t care, as if he were celebrating the cats being assholes, and I was like, “ You’re killin’ me, Smalls ,” but then he just celebrated the fact that I was frustrated. Honestly, it is impossible to stay mad at that raccoon.
    Sometime around two a.m., Ferris Mewler finally gave up and stayed upright, annoyed but resigned, as he carried an ecstatic Rory on his back and I was like, “YES! FERRIS MEWLER, YOU ARE AMERICA’S NEXT TOP MODEL! ” But then Victor opened the bedroom door and yelled, “ WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON OUT HERE? IT’S TWO O’CLOCK IN THE DAMN MORNING, ” and Ferris panicked at all the unexpected yelling and tore off down the hall but Rory was still stuck to his back as Ferris streaked through the living room. And then Victor was like, “HOLY SHIT. WHAT IN THE HELL WAS THAT? ” because I guess his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the light (or maybe to the sight of an ecstatic raccoon frolicking bareback on a house cat). I considered acting just as shocked as he was and claiming it was probably a small chupacabra that had snuck in. But then I thought that would just raise more questions so instead I lowered the camera and said, “What was what ?” as innocently as possible. I prayed he’d just go away questioning his sanity, and he did, but probably less because I’d fooled him and more because he’d married someone who took secret pictures of cats wearing dead raccoons in the wee hours of the morning. It wasn’t my fault though. I’ve had chronic insomnia for as long as I can remember. These are the things that eventually happen when you’re alone at two a.m. often enough.
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    (Editor: Remember three pages ago when you said you lost your arms? How have we not gotten to that