Send Help!

Cowboy here. How long have I been married to a naughty birbantella? Sorry, that's redundant. A birbantella implies the imp is naughty. Not just naughty, but capable of black ops stealth, cunning, sneaky, generally successful. A lot of years of wedded bliss for the two of us, a lot of sores, bruises, much worse for the medics that have treated her.

Sar knew there were some medical appointments coming up. Among them, an MRI, other scans, some invasive stuff. Enough going on, the docs suggested an overnight stay, get it all done. Despite the thick file they have on mia bambina, they continue to neglect the basics: mainly, Sar is an escape artist. Won't tolerate unnecessary touching, won't wear a hospital gown, knows every nook/cranny of the local clinic, a whiz kid at jamming computer monitoring, takes advantage of whatever is available to be taken advantage of. Ergo: my escape artist pulled the plug on the computer, hit the security lights on the electrical panel which released locks on the secure doors, climbed out a window, was home eating cake when I finally caught up with her. Not sure the medics realize the imp escaped—again.

Somebody send help.

Announced I was going to burn that little butt. The imp looked up, smiled, offered a glass of peach brandy. Like a rookie, I reached for it; that's when she kicked me.

Mata Hari

Chased her through the house, up the stairs, got to the bedroom, tripped over the mastiff, got the door slammed in my face. Mastiff attacked, pushed me over, drooled on my face.

I need professional help.

Got the dog off, got the door open, faced a large Rottweiler showing off his big teeth. The imp laughed.

Threatened dire retribution. Sar plays dirty. She stripped, jumped my bones. Band tuned up, etc.

A couple of swats, much laughter, another successful medical evasion. Thinking about handcuffing the imp to the bed.

Doc called, wanted to know if Sar was home. I said no. Now I'm a co-conspirator.

Send help.

Cowboy