Bilbo is dead. He has been dead, lo, these many years. If memory serves, he wandered into the backyard and was shot by X who was taking target practice with a machine gun and mistook him for a paper bull's eye on the fence. He is stuffed and mounted in Janice's living room, and shipped every six months to Freddy according to an unusual custody agreement. I do not deny my culpability in telling X that no, I didn't notice anything strange about the target.
Sadly, his loss catapulted Freddy and Janice into a severe psychotic break à deux. While seemingly able to function normally in all other areas of their lives, their extreme grief led them to a denial that rewrote the past and present into a more palatable reality. They became convinced that Bilbo's poor, stuffed body was still breathing and moving. They would position him like the gnome in the Travelocity commercials and take pictures. I understand they keep albums and diaries of his days, bereaved parents clinging desperately to their moldy, increasingly hairless, and quite disgusting poochie.
Holly, a sweet, bright, but entirely too gullible young woman (I hope she notices how I brought YOUNG into this) has accepted their claims that Bilbo's lack of mobility and inertia are merely evidence of a placid nature. She is not to blame. |
