What’s in a Name?

Mine was “Bones”.
BUC got off easy.

I’m shocked and delighted every. single. day that my shit isn’t piled up on the curb when I come home. My flexible husband says it’s only because there’s too much of it.

After returning home from a particularly gnarly day at work, my little sister, my brother-in-law, and my flexible husband greeted me in the living room. And they seemed a little disappointed. I ignored that part. Hugs and pleasantries were exchanged. I began talking. (this will become a recurring theme.)

I must have paused to breathe or something several minutes later because one of them took the opportunity to ask me why I didn’t put my car in the garage like I usually do. Guess I was excited to see my visitors?

Rewind two hours prior:

My flexible husband recruits my sister and brother-in-law to go on a Chicken Caper. In a Subaru Forester. A deal at the artsy-fartsy shoppe is made. The males of the species manage to stuff a six-foot wild country color metal rooster in the back, with my sister sitting criss-cross-applesauce between its razor sharp tail feathers and its metal re bar talons for the ride home.

All three of the chicken crew experienced bodily damage while on the caper, as there are no dull edges on this yard art. At my flexible husband’s direction, the chicken was placed in my parking bay near the garage door– so that it would be the first thing I saw when I came home.

When asked what the chicken’s name would be, my flexible husband replied in an obvious tone, “The Big Ugly Chicken. BUC for short.”

When asked what happens if she hits it with her car, my flexible husband replied in the same tone, “Problem Solved.”

The problem continues.