Who Got My Snake Dirty?

It's impossible to have nice things around here. I left my basement office to fetch an important paper from my school bag, and there it was. My snake has a dark footprint on his yellow side. It looks like a footprint. It could be some greasy smudge. But in any case, that's not the way I left him last night.

Oh, it's not a real snake. It's a stuffed snake, chartreuse and red and yellow, about two feet long. The Pony won it for me at the school carnival last year. He actually won two. I have an upstairs snake and a downstairs snake. I wonder if that would make a good TV series: Upstairs Snake, Downstairs Snake. Probably not. But you never know. Ever hear of a show called My Mother the Car? I rest my case.

These snakes are in high demand from my cervical region. That's not some lady part. It's the neck. Cervical spine. The snakes are just the right thickness to fit between my skull and shoulders like one of those airline neck-rest thingamabobbers. Only comfortable. I can squeeze the snake's belly if it's too plump. The upstairs snake sprung a leak of white stuffing, so my mom stitched him back together. Too much belly-squeezin', I suppose.

Every night, or, to be more accurate, the wee hours of every morning, I wake up from my inadvertent chair nap and drape my chartreuse and red and yellow Christmas throw that I won at my sister's New Year's Eve party over the arm of the couch. (Yes. It complements my snake color scheme. You don't think I want the back of my neck to clash with my blankie do you? I leave the blue and orange and yellow snake upstairs.) Upon that throw, I stretch out my snake. So they're ready and waiting for me the next night. You would think they would remain undisturbed. But you don't live in my house.

The Pony flops down on that couch most nights to play games on his laptop and watch the big-screen TV. He claims the other end. He has his own blanket. He doesn't turn on the end lamp unless I'm coming out to join him for one of our special shows, those being Amazing Race, Survivor, Big Brother, and WipeOut. Yes. We're quite the highbrow family. Rarely does The Pony disturb my stuff. He's generally a picker-upper of others' messes.

Hick has been home for a week with his knee surgery. Or his knee that went through surgery. Don't go thinkin' Hick's got an operating theater for freelancing. He was laid up for three days with crutches. Stairs were not his friend. Neither was the proper manner of walking with crutches. But by Friday, Hick had graduated to a cane. And he came down the stairs a couple of times. I'm not sure what goes on when he's home and I'm not. He might have held a car-mechanic hoe-down for all I know.

But one thing I WANT to know is WHO GOT MY SNAKE DIRTY?

The inquisition will start tomorrow. At 6:30 a.m.