Thanksgiving without a bang

Keeping with the munitions theme...

Upon my arrival Wednesday night in southern Indiana, I called my sister, who reminded me that it's deer hunting season.

Crap.

In the 5 years I've had Big Head Dog, I seem to always forget to buy one of those safety-orange vests for my deer-colored dog. In case you've never seen one, a whitetail deer looks something like this (minus the shirt) running through the woods (or, I suppose, through my living room):

Big as he is, Big Head Dog is not deer sized. He also does not have antlers. Only a complete idiot or drunkard would do something so stupid as to mistake a 75-pound dog for a 10-point buck while holding a gun.

Ahem.

So, I searched the farmhouse for something sorta dog-sized and orange-like. And I hit the jackpot--a bag full of my clothes from the mid-80s. Florals, fuschias, oranges, day-glo....oh, the horror of it all was spectacular.

And so Big Head Dog ran the woods with his t-shirt proclaiming him a participant in the 1985 Lanesville Heritage Weekend 8-mile race.

Even though the Monster is not deer-colored, he looked so....naked. And unstylish. And he is a monster, so he deserves something heinous every chance I get. Behold, the hot-pink muscle sweatshirt:

Are they waiting at the door to go outside, or to run away from their cruel master once and for all? Who knows.