Back in the World Again

It had been over 500 days since my last flight, a staggering amount of time inside my house since returning from India in early 2020. We’ve all gone a bit nuts. I am absolutely no exception. My hobbies have evolved from welcomed distractions to obsessive and weird. Currently, I’m going deep on books about fungi. Like real deep.

So you might understand why there was a smidge of trepidation in catapulting back into the throngs of humanity. Allison had also stocked up on COVID tests in anticipation of me bringing the Delta variant back to Alabama. Her goodbye was riddled with all the feels.

My destination was Indiana for two jam-packed days. NASCAR and Indycar were both racing on the Indianapolis Motor Speedway road course, in the type of event that gets me all jacked up. It promised to be a loud, exciting and buffet-filled weekend.

But there would be lots of people - three dimensional ones. Overwhelmingly, my personal interactions as of late have been virtual. We introduce ourselves with well-worn bios, try not to talk over each other for a bit and then follow-up with an email. Along with having to remember where I stored my pants, this trip would also force me into situations where I was hanging out with a lot of new faces. Luckily, I was loaded up with some sweet mushroom fun facts. Let’s do this.

The airport protocols I walked into weren’t that big of a deal. I wouldn’t say wearing a mask is really an inconvenience, because it acted as a barrier between my nose and airplane smells. The bigger challenge was that they are notably understaffed in all positions. Finding paper towels or ordering a meal was a much more challenging experience than before. The angry face buttons on the bathroom cleanliness surveys were all assuredly covered in COVID. 

Since I’m all healthy and stuff (also the Chick-fil-A line was insane), I opted for a smart travel snack pairing of a bottled water and bag o’ trail mix. I went with the budget nut brand, instead of a well-packaged offering of ‘Nut-rition.’ So after building confidence and optimism on the puddle jumper to Atlanta, I prepared for a tasty snack on my Indy flight. Not having one of those ‘tear here’ notches probably saved me 2 cents, but I would have happily shelled out the difference after spraying my nut assortment clear across the airplane. I. Was. Mortified. The guy beside in a “Baby Yoda is my Patronas” t-shirt shirt asked if I needed help in a way that came off as very insulting. I had interrupted his Parks and Rec viewing slash game of Candy Crush. 

Indianapolis has a cool downtown area. It smells slightly of poots (steam?), but offers lots of pleasant green space, a man made canal and great views of the White River. I love a good water feature. They need to chill on the ubiquitous scooter rentals though. After 10pm, you are taking your life into your own hands when traversing the sidewalk. 

f you know nothing about Indianapolis Motor Speedway, know that is has brought upon the kind of racing fan devotion that involves a man building a treehouse in someone else’s back yard just so he wouldn’t miss seeing last year’s 500 in person. He couldn’t even see the whole track from there. 

This hallowed site has been hosting automobile races since 1911, when “The Brickyard” nickname alluded to the 2.5 mile oval’s surface original brick surface. 500 miles of that would have been rather chafe inducing. The facility in its modern form is so unbelievably massive that you could fit Vatican City, The Taj Mahal, Churchill Downs, Yankee Stadium, Rose Bowl Stadium, the White House, Liberty Island and the Roman Colosseum inside the track simultaneously. The most repeated phrase from our weekend group was, “Got my steps in!”

was geeking out as soon as we came out of the tunnel. To you, cars going around and around for hours may be super boring, but a race track is my happy place. The noise, the danger, the smells of burning rubber and exhaust awake my senses. These individuals that pilot shiny 200+ mph machines are my heroes. I was given a pass that would let me go just about anywhere, and I was going to use every bit of that freedom. 

Having never quite known how to act around famous people, I decided to go with the “make them think we know each other” approach. My dad uses this method with great success. A normal human can only remember so many names and faces. If you are Joey Logano and get introduced to hundreds of people every week, you’re going to smile and wave back when someone says hello with a certain level of confidence. I had an absolute blast exchanging cordials with drivers, broadcasters and legends of the sport, including the greatest mullet-haver in racing and a portly NASCAR icon who is so very appropriately sponsored by Oscar Meyer.

When a lull in the on-track action came Saturday afternoon, I set out to procure some authentic trackside merch. It has become standard practice to fetch souvenirs for the girls whenever we travel. Money can’t buy love or happiness, but it can help your kids forget that you abandoned them for a stretch.

My oldest occasionally watches along with me on Sunday afternoons and she doesn’t pick losers, so I knew Maggie needed a Chase Elliott car. I promptly stepped up to his designated vendor and asked for such. “You want the Hooter’s sponsored one?” asked the lady. “Umm, this is for my 6 year old daughter, so maybe let’s go another route,” I responded with a half-judgy laugh. We settled on his usual NAPA Auto Parts livery. 

declined both bag and receipt, because the case was small enough to go in a pocket and, you know, the Earth. Target one acquired, I quickly ducked into a tent next door to find Libby a Scott Dixon Indycar replica. She hadn’t declared her allegiance specifically to the 6-time champ, so this was admittedly a bit selfish on my part. I also like winners.

While casually twirling purchase 1 in my left hand (still in original packaging) and thinking nothing of it, I look up to see a huge display of Chase Elliott cars before me…the exact same edition I’m holding. No question, I 100% look like a shoplifter if I do anything other than walk this to the register. I scanned the area for employees, started to sweat a bit, and concluded that Jesus knew the truth. In the most suspicious looking sequence in history, I slid the plastic case into my pocket and scooted toward the exit with my cool guy face on. Safely out of range and feeling uncomfortably damp, I hastily deconstructed the packaging before Chase Elliott himself could appear out of nowhere and yell “J’accuse!” 

Back to the mission at hand, I simmered a bit and tracked down mini Scott Dixon. Feeling a renewed sense of accomplishment, I make for the checkout. About that time, I look down and see blood…a shocking amount of blood.

My shorts are stained red. My thumb is dripping all over the grass below. I can’t think of anything else to do, so I choose the least COVID-friendly course of action and put the affected area in my mouth. The plastic must have sliced my hand during the hasty escape minutes earlier. Panic returns. I take off in search of a bathroom. There’s no easy conversation with strangers about where all the blood came from, so I do my best to stay optimistic about stain removal possibilities.

Did I mention it was a real bad weekend for finding paper towels? Yeah, this is when the scarcity really hit home. Rather than conveniently wrapping my open would in absorbent materials and making some inroads on the problem, I was left to squeeze as much utility as I could out of soap and water.

With shorts that were mostly soaked through and a thumb that I kept as far from my body as possible, I figured that since I walked clear across the plaza to get here, I might as well pee. Let me at least empty my full bladder with the shred of dignity that remains. But no, dear reader, with a bumbling one-handed approach, I failed to get all my business properly back in its place before the zipper tragically caught some of it. 

Y’all, it’s truly a low moment when you are sweating, covered in water you threw on your own blood-stained shorts while franticly evaluating the severity of a self-inflicted penis wound in a public bathroom. This tends not to happen when you are watching the race broadcast from the comfort of your couch. I got lucky, folks. It was touch and go for a bit, but I thankfully did not require a trip to the infield medical center.

Like a phoenix from the ashes, I eventually rebounded and nobody knew the difference. All my wetness and anxiety evaporated in the 85 degree heat. I was once again happy not to be somewhere other than my living room on a Saturday afternoon.

I used the opportunity to wander around and take in the event from as many angles as I could. I talked to the volunteers, got a little too much sunshine on my face, and eventually returned to a delightful set of mixed company. All in all it was a great weekend. 

Upon my return home, Allison eschewed pleasantries in order to first stab me in the nose with a COVID test. It came back negative.

Living in a House Full of Ladies

I like to plan things. Meals, trips, conversation topics, most efficient driving routes, you name it. Some things, however, are beyond my control. Family planning, for instance, was a bit of a crapshoot. But in an ideal world, I wanted two girls.

So here I am, a father to two lovely ladies of 5 and 3. Every day is a joy. There’s glitter everywhere.

As I tackle year five of being wholly outnumbered, it’s time to offer up my findings. The sample size, at this point, has produced many insights that are rooted in factual observation, and hopefully won’t get me exiled to the basement. The time has come to hand in my report on what it’s like being the only dude in a house full of ladies.

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Exhibit 1: So Much Hair

You know you have reached peak hair when every shirt you throw on has a dangly one in the sleeve. This is an unbelievably consistent occurrence and ever since Maggie grew a head full of curly locks to match her mother, this is my life. Drains, floors, and stray toothbrushes lay fully at their mercy.

To top it off, I have no idea how to style and/or arrange the two small heads that have been presented to me. WTF is a barrette and what are they good for!? I pick up at least 10 per day off the floor, so maybe they are simply fun to play with.

When Allison goes out of town, I consider it a success if my girls return home from school with any implements I stuck on their head still intact. Corralling a fidgety child’s hair into a reliable ponytail still feels like throwing darts, but I’m trying.

Exhibit 2: Music

Taylor Swift isn’t terrible. There, I said it. 

Music is one of those things that I hold reasonably sacred. I was a radio DJ in college at WEGL, played in a band* and have a decent record collection. Once I married Allison (for mostly not her taste in music) it was already assumed that I would have to make some playlist sacrifices. 

We have a family agreement that a song can’t be played twice on the same car trip. Rules exist because they were, at one time, broken to an egregious extent. I’m warming up to that T-Swift, but a man can only take so much. Once you hear your 5 year old belt out the line “In the middle of the night…In MY DREEEAMS…You should see the things we do, BABY!” then you start to reign it in a bit.

The Frozen movies actually have some pretty solid jams, and Trolls is a musical triumph. Over time, my critical mind has opened a bit. I’ve embraced music that would have gotten me fired from the radio station, but rest assured I’m still racing to connect my Spotify library first when we get in the car.

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Exhibit 3: Dairy Products (mostly cheese)

Lord have mercy the cheese. I can’t say that my single days ever involved a cheese board, but here we are. That fondue pot we thoughtlessly registered for is now a staple in the pantry. Needless to say, my dairy product paradigm has shifted on its head.

 Allow me to  recite the inventory of our refrigerator at this exact moment: Cottage cheese, 2 packs of string cheese, cheese dip, cream cheese, muenster slices, 2 lbs of grated parmesan, 2 blocks of mozzarella, havarti slices, shredded cheddar, feta, pimento cheese, ricotta…I’m tired of typing, and I bet you get it by now. I never knew the genre could be so versatile, for the whole of breakfast, lunch and dinner.

When I heard of the dairy industry’s recent decline, I slept well knowing that we are doing our part to supplement the demand curve.

Exhibit 4: Pee Pee Shame

I thank God every day for having a penis. It is a much more convenient and efficient lifestyle. Getting ready in the morning, packing for trips, and purchasing clothes are all very simple undertakings. So, understandably, I was rattled a bit once the shaming began.

Allison and I are constantly reminded that there is no privacy in this house. A locked door or missing parent is simply an excuse to raise more hell and bust down the barriers between. Unless they are deeply unconscious, there’s a very good chance our poops, showers, and mommy/daddy special time will be interrupted.

It was Maggie who hurled the first insult. As detailed above, my visits to the restroom are seldomly uninterrupted, so Maggie took an opportunity to examine my unorthodox standing method and deem it “super gross.” Her feedback included commentary on “peeing out of (my) front butt” which was obviously hilarious. She quickly got Libby onboard with her hate mongering, so now the mere sight of me taking a leak elicits all kinds of chastization from the duo. With a few months of therapy, I’ll get beyond it. 

Exhibit 5: Toilet Paper

When you get married, there are compromises to be made. Two people will never perfectly align on every single thing, so you meet in the middle…except in those areas where you totally don’t. In the early days of my life with Mrs. Chapman, I wondered where all the toilet paper went. Then I helped create two more females. What used to last me a week will barely survive one day. It’s uncanny. Call me frugal, but even a big situation is likely a 10 square commitment. Somebody report back and let me know what the deal is. I tried to ask one time but was growled at.

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Exhibit 5: Feelings

Historically, I would classify myself as “emotionally challenged.” The Chapman method, which has served to give several of us hypertension, is to internalize your feelings. I can recount many instances where my mother incurred serious wounds or was presented with really heavy situations, and just got on with it. The most I ever remember Brenda crying was when she backed into my sweet ‘95 Ford Mustang (a gift for my 16th birthday) and dented the fender. She was so upset that I got an aftermarket spoiler added at the body shop.

Fast forward to February 2015. Allison and I are hosting a Superbowl party at Chapman HQ. Maggie is 3 weeks from debuting on the scene. Toyota’s commercial that year featured a father and his daughter through the years. When the flashback ends, dad is crying in his Camry while dropping his adult daughter off at the airport. She is waving goodbye and departing for her assumedly dangerous military posting. Y’all, I totally lost it.

These days, it doesn’t take much. Old photos of our children, commercials featuring Sara McLachlan and sad puppies, Queer Eye reveals - all guaranteed to make me well up.

Yet, even with this heightened sensitivity, I still manage to hurt little baby feelings on a daily basis. My children’s responses to adversity and what I consider to be proportional reactions are usually way off. Therefore, I am often called  “mean” or generally accused of lacking the appropriate amount of empathy. My snuggles are also apparently second rate.

Last week, our family was at the pool. For Maggie, the time had come to offload her floatation aids and swim like a big girl. It was a goal we had pushed her to take on, and things were going well in the shallow end. Then, she slipped off a raft in an area where it was just deep enough to scare her a bit. Maggie was rescued immediately, but that didn’t keep her from elaborately expressing her dismay to the entire pool-going audience. 

Her immediate intent was to find the nearest exit and retreat in embarrassment, screaming dramatically with a face full of tears. But the gates were child proof and after the first one failed to yield, she furiously tugged on it like someone auditioning for the part of “desperate prisoner.” Over the next minute, she made a full circle of the facility, applying the same over-exaggerated theatrics to each locked gate and the distance covered between. Each failed attempt only brought out more emotion. It was made so much worse that we couldn’t help but laugh at the silliness of it all.

Here’s the thing, though. That same child came back the next day with a vengeance. She established her own training regiment, setting increasingly more challenging goals along the way. By the last day, she was swimming like a fish, having conquered her fears and the deep end. I couldn’t have been prouder. 

And that’s why having a family full of ladies is pretty great.

*Gooch was an influential house party band formed by my roommate and I. We were terribly awesome

Chappy Does an Ultramarathon

I was puking my guts up two hours into a 30 hour adventure back from India. 

Turns out that maybe you shouldn’t try every kind of alcoholic beverage right before hopping on your 3am flight out of Chennai. It was a wedding reception, mind you, and my body was barely holding on after three days of festivities. The drinks were free, and after giving a pretty decent toast (including a Civil War joke and the phrase “total badass”) to the happy couple, I decided to get in the spirit of things.

It was somewhere around the third trip to that Qatar airliner bathroom where I hit a real low point. Having been to college, it was fairly clear to me what the problem was. Good luck, though, convincing a flight attendant from Qatar that you are just “sick like that night we chugged Jose Cuervo” instead of a Coronavirus host. This was about one week to the day before things really started shutting down worldwide, and there were a lot of nervous people in transit.

I needed to hydrate, start getting a few snacks in my belly, and find any motivation to get through two more layovers and another 24 hours of airplane food riddled with curry. Luckily, I was getting to the meat of an audiobook by David Goggins called “Can’t Hurt Me.” He went from over 300 pounds to one of the best ultramarathon runners in the world. David completed his first 100 miler on a whim and quickly worked his way up to the most absurd endurance challenges known to man (Badwater 135, 24 hour pull up record).

I love a good motivational story, and this one made me feel like a proper weenie for the comparatively trivial foot races (and hangover recoveries) I have completed in my many years. I’ve participated in two marathons, four halves, a handful of challenging trail runs under 20 miles, but that is the extent of it. For a while now, it has felt like I was on the downslope to dad bod mediocrity.

Having grown a smidge wiser in my late thirties, however, I’ve started contemplating the enjoyment of thoughtful exercise. Running has always been a competitive thing for me, but what would happen if I just strapped on my CamelBak and didn’t care about splits? I could listen to more motivational audiobooks, relax a bit, and head off into the woods for a few hours. Maybe long distances wouldn’t be so terrible if I simply slowed down.

Upon my return to Alabama, I put this idea to the test. The quickly hashed out goal was to jog more than an hour, but ten miles was looking like an easy task until I almost pooped in the neighbor’s bushes at mile 9.8. Time to carefully walk it home without anyone seeing where my right hand was positioned.

Next thing you know, the calendar was marked for a local trail race in May. It had a 10k, 50k and 12 hour all-you-can-run event. Seemed like a mid-range option was notably absent, but I had two months to sort out the details. Then everything got canceled…

Thankfully, the concept of “Virtual Races” started to catch on, and the organizers eventually pivoted to an online event. Participants could run wherever they want, simply sending in a GPS file of the effort. To further embrace the theme of social distancing, my uncharacteristic optimism had me thinking about a loop that would keep it all on our property. I’ve really lost it now!

Outside of a few casual mentions and putting in for a vacation day, I didn’t really tell anyone what I was doing. My parents would undoubtedly give me a speech. The neighborhood running group would call me stupid. It was best if I didn’t set myself up for failure. 

Speaking of failure, I did one hour long run around my house loop and it suuuucked. 30 feet of elevation change and tricky footing over the course of a 200 meter loop gets old very quickly. I needed every break I could get, and 250 of laps around my hillside lot was a death wish. At least I was starting to get practical.

As the week of the race approached, 9.8 miles was still my longest training run. But that didn’t stop me from deciding 6 hours of effort would be my self-imposed cutoff. If I made it to 50 kilometers, then it would be considered a success. That’s an 11:23/mile pace to all of you viewers at home. 

I awoke at 3:45am that Friday morning. Everything was laid out. With Vaseline applied, an audiobook specifically about running ultramarathons downloaded, and a last-minute safety poop in the books, I shuffled out to the street. For giggles, I sent a “before” selfie to our WhatsApp group of dude friends. When my Australian buddy (probably drunk at the time) immediately chimed back with interest, I felt obliged to continue updating the boys on the hour mark. Let’s do this thing before I fully awaken and realize what is happening.

Hour 1

Having wisened considerably on my route, I knew there would only be a few places in the neighborhood of Vestavia Hills where I could keep things flat. My first destination, the high school parking lot, also had lights that made running at 4:30am seem less ominous. The first hour was run entirely in a circle on the flat part of that parking lot, but I changed directions a few times to spice it up. I was enjoying the audiobook and keeping a comfortable pace around 9 minutes. A quick walking break for snack number one with hour 1 complete. 6.8 miles down.

Hour 2

Since this was initially on the schedule as a trail race, I felt obliged to go off-road for the middle part. Sunrise lighting my path, I headed down to our nearest park for a delightfully shaded forest loop. Things were continuing to go uncharacteristically well (no emergency poops yet), but my average mile pace was going up slightly due to the terrain. Did I mention the humidity? Even though the temp outside was sparingly mild, I started to realize that my water supply wasn’t going to last very long. Piling on to my paranoia was the fear that I had fallen behind a bit on snacks. When you are burning around 1,000 calories per hour, replenishing 100 at a time with GU packs won’t work indefinitely. Doubts  began to creep in as I eclipsed the first half marathon in just under 2 hours. Friends, who were now up early with their kids, filled the WhatsApp discussion with encouragement slash comments on how sweaty I was.

Hour 3

I knew hour three would be tough, namely because I was now clipping off distances my legs hadn’t experienced in over 10 years. The halfway mark would also offer up a good indicator of my chances to hit 50k within 6 hours. I had resolved to run (let’s call it a jog by now) until the end of hour 3 to give myself a chance. Leg cramps popped up, unfortunately, and that objective was not achieved. I knew it was in my best interest to get back to the house ASAP to restock. 19 miles in as I walked the only notable hill back up to our street.

Hour 4

This is precisely when the situation went pear-shaped. You might be thinking “Hey Chappy, what’s 12 more miles after you have gone this far?” While your optimism is appreciated, dear friends, I was in a very bad place. My body started to cramp in brand new ways. It was all I could do to ascend the 6 steps to my back deck. While I was bent over, struggling to refill the CamelPak and screaming obscenities, my lovely wife opened the back door to greet me. “You should stop. Just stop. This is obviously a terrible idea” she encouraged. I’m sure the visual was unsettling, and frankly, I was a broken man. My midsection was locked in one giant cramp, and I felt like a muppet achieving the simplest of tasks.

At this point, rain was falling and there were still 11 miles remaining.  I’ve never DNF’d a race in my life. Despite the fact that I had basically concocted my own twisted challenge in this scenario, I was hoping the Advil, pickles and most of a water bottle would lend a hand. The focus now was to just keep moving, whatever that meant. I grabbed all the remaining stock and set out for another hundred or so loops around the high school parking lot.

As a forgettable 60 minute period concluded, I had only added 4 more miles to my total. It was going to be close…

Hour 5

Due to the rain and general lack of optimism, I had failed to update my dudes since the 19 mile mark. Messages like “Chappy, proof of life please” kept popping up on my watch. I was 100% walking at this point and my average pace was climbing beyond the mid tens. Advil helped as it started to kick in, and so did some solid food. I resolved to not leave it all up to the last hour, and so began running the slightly downhill side of the parking lot loop. I looked up and opened my mouth for rain as a feeble attempt to save my onboard water supply. Without an easy way to refill, I knew this would have to last me to the finish. Slowly but surely, I started to find a rhythm in my jog/walk approach. I was somewhat pleased with my resolve when I finally told the crew that I was 27 miles in. This was doable.

Hour 6

50 kilometers equates to 31.16 miles in America units. My watch readout only goes to tenths, so I had planned to bank an extra .1 at the finish for a secure grand total of 31.2 miles. The rarely seen Optimistic Chappy came out for a bit as I stared down the final 60 minutes. Cramps returned, but the mileage eclipsed in hour 5 had proven that this hybrid approach was fast enough to get there. My desire to get it over with pushed the jog section further. I had eaten all the snacks, including every edible part of an apple, and my water supply was seriously low. The watch became my obsession, as each tenth slowly ticked over.

The thirty mile mark got me all emotional, because I could taste it by that point. I thought about my girls, who were surely disappointed I hadn’t done this all in our back yard. The impending cold beer and pizza also might have had something to do with it…and I was totally going to load up some extra shredded cheese.

After a few more loops of the parking lot, it was time for the short trot back to our house. My parents, who still didn’t really know what I was doing, casually called as they were out running errands in the Friday morning rain.

“Hey, whatcha doing? Sounds like you are out running” remarks Brenda. “Well, funny story,” I began. “About to finish my first ultramarathon. I’m at mile 31, with .2 left to go.” My Dad couldn’t help himself with the obligatory “Please be careful and don’t hurt yourself.” 

“Dad, I can literally see the house at this point. I’m done. No need for speeches.” “Just take care of yourself, is all I’m saying.” as he still couldn’t help himself. “Ok, I’m going now, parents. Going to wrap this thing up, eat all the pizza, and drink all the beer.”

With that sign off, I decided to run the driveway with intent, and heard sweet little voices yelling “Daddy, Daddy!” as I hit the virtual finish line with 15 minutes to spare.  It was over, and even as the cramps all came back at once, I couldn’t have been much happier on my wobbly legs…

Almost two weeks have passed since, and I don’t have any lingering injuries. Seems that being a jogging/walking enthusiast has its benefits. I’ve ridden the wave long enough to sign up for another virtual race -   commitment that somehow spans 717 miles over 140 days in the spirit of Forrest Gump. You might say it is a fitting next step. We’re over two months into spending nearly every waking moment in the same place, and I can go as slow as I want. Maybe I just feel like running…

*Many thanks to Southeastern Trail Runs & The Trak Shak for being awesome*

Getting Spooky in the Suburbs

Growing up in the middle of nowhere, you have the occasional eerie experience. With the absence of humans and a lot of overgrown nature, it gets very dark, and very quiet. Howling, rustling, crickets and the occasional train compose a nightly soundtrack. Probably not a coincidence that both Pet Sematery 2 and The Walking Dead were filmed in our little country town south of Atlanta. So, it comes as a bit of a surprise that a moment in our suburban back yard last year gave me the worst case of the willies I’ve ever had.

To set the stage, I have to backtrack a bit first. On September 16th of 2018, we had to put down Artimus, who was a dear cat friend and a true legend. Because I grew up in the aforementioned boonies, the only way I know to handle the aftermath of this situation is to dig a hole in the back yard. I wrapped the little guy up, covered gently, and let the girls put flowers on top. For good measure, I found a large rock to mark the spot. Then I had a few too many beers because it was still 90 degrees outside in September and the only other dude in our household was gone.

His resting spot was up on the hill behind our house, along one of the main paths. Going up to the shed in the weeks that followed, I would usually stop and pay respects. We got a new cat (although he was frequently called Artimus), and life progressed.

Fast forward to the night before Halloween. Those of you that know me are well aware that I have an impressive costume collection. I was on the hunt for accessories to fit with our Jurrassic Park-themed family ensemble, so off to the shed I went with flashlight in hand…but something was different.

ARTIMUS WAS GONE. No doubt about it, either, because the stone was moved. Nothing left but an empty hole in the clay. Walking back into the house (after acquiring the perfect matching handkerchief), Allison could see the disturbance in my wide-eyes. Out of little girl earshot, I told Allison what I saw. “What do you mean he’s gone!? How is that even possible!?” Needless to say, I didn’t sleep super well that night.

I awoke with a million questions. First, we blamed the dog. Lucy is admittedly still bitter about us having kids and all. She fought with Artimus on occasion, but it seemed more playful than anything. Hard to believe she would stoop to that level. Plus, it would require physical exertion, which her tubby butt is wholeheartedly against. That was the sum of our suspects.

Being Halloween and all, we donned our costumes for the neighborhood celebration. We really do it up right, with a parade, occasional adult refreshment stations, and a strategically circular route. A handful of us adjourned back to Chapman HQ for some pizza and more breathable attire. It wasn’t until Joe and I were hanging out on the back porch that we heard suspect(s) number two: coyotes. 

One isn’t used to hearing a lively pack howling on a Wednesday night in the middle of suburbia. With the lack of a physical barrier between us, my skin start to crawl as I started piecing the mental puzzle together. The local stories and footage that started to pop up in the community in the hours that followed certainly did not help.

After considering all of the facts at hand, there is only one explanation for the vacant tomb. As far as I’m concerned, Artimus was Kitty Jesus. He died for the innumerable sins of his kind, rolled away the stone, cast away his robes, and sitteth up there chilling.