The case of the roving gnome hand

I once received a ceramic gnome riding on a turtle as a gift.  I once had a roommate who named the gnome Aloysius P. Kelley and the turtle Fauntleroy (sp?).  And to be truthful, I cannot remember whether this is true, or whether the gnome's name was Fauntleroy (sp?) and the turtle Aloysius P. Kelley.  Let the roommate feel free to clarify this point. 

The main thing here is that I have had this gnome and turtle for  quite some time now - they have traveled with me through at least four moves and three different states.  They are currently residing at the back door to my garage next to my house plants (which are currently enjoying their warm season freedom out of the house).

APK and Fauntleroy (sp?; whichever one is which) have become a bit faded over the years, but they continue to enjoy the good life that any ceramic yard art so richly deserves.

One day a few weeks ago, I noticed that APK (let's go with the assumption that APK is indeed the gnome) had lost a hand.  I was sure that this had not happened in his most recent move, that he was totally intact when I placed him here to guard my back door.

I thought: well, some wily rodent (read: squirrel) has surely cracked his hand off and taken it away to add to its ceramic hand collection somewhere all creepy up in a tree.

I also thought: well, you know, ceramic has a shelf-life.  And it's been so bloody hot this summer.  Perhaps the hand just fell off on its own at the joint and bounced away out of sight.

To investigate this second hypothesis, I took a look on the ground around APK/Faunteleroy (sp?).  And sure enough, there was a piece of the fingers of APK's hand, there in the dirt in the garden about 18 inches from the statue.  The fingers, but no hand post-fingers-to-wrist.

Now the new mystery became where was the hand?  Did the wily rodents cache (or worse, consume) only the hand portion and discard the fingers?  Well, I could make my peace with the fingers making their way from the gnome to the garden 18 inches away.  But I could not for the life of me fathom how the hand and fingers came to be separate from one another and separate from the gnome.  This was almost worse than the whole hand and fingers being missing.  Now I had to come up with a hypothesis that accounted for not only the hand being separated from the gnome but the fingers being separated from the hand...

I decided to sleep on it.

Later that week, I was watering my plants and found this:

The hand!  In a potted, curly plant a few feet from the gnome and turtle and even farther from the previously-discovered missing fingers.

What in the name of Merlin's beard is going on here?  What are these wily rodents trying to pull?

Now I can believe that the hand and fingers could fall off of the statue unprovoked.  I can even believe that they could do so separately.  I can believe that they might bounce into the adjacent garden.  But I cannot believe that the hand would up and bounce over a meter away into a potted plant.  This was not a meteorological accident.  Some moving, breathing creature did this.

But it was not me.  And I refuse to believe that any prowler would take such strange action.

So you tell me, what are the wily rodents up to here?  Or should I be pursuing some other line of investigation entirely?

Sincerely,

Confused Caretaker of a Handless Gnome

p.s. I mulled over the idea that the Beagle had something to do with all of this.  And I cannot make it work in my head that Maximilian would bite off APK's hand and fingers and dispose of them separately.  He has never shown the statue even the least bit of animosity.  Plus he has been too busy chasing and consuming cicadas.

Shirtless youth

I was at a small town gas station a few days ago, putting gas in a vehicle and buying small town gas station coffee, and trying not to buy small town gas station doughnuts, small town gas station chicken bits, or small town gas station ho-hos.  It was a moderately successful outing.

After returning to my vehicle after escaping the small town gas station proper with nothing but coffee, I wait behind the truck at the pump in front of me instead of trying to manoeuvre my vehicle out in a backwards way.  I didn't have to wait long.  A lanky, shirtless youth in old blue jeans and work boots strides confidently out of the station (which apparently does not enforce a "no shirt" rule) and toward his truck with long, purposeful steps and a "pop" in his fist.

He readies himself and his pop in his vehicle before slowly pulling away from the pump.  He moves his truck about 12 feet forward before glancing back at me in his rearview mirror.

Then, he quickly leaps out of his truck, leaving his door hanging open and engine running.  He uses his long, purposeful steps to move himself toward my vehicle, and before I can even get my window rolled down to see what he wants, he has gently pushed the lid to my gas tank closed and is making his way back by my window and toward his truck.

I laugh, shout out my thanks, and feel a little goofy.  What a nice kid, I think.  He wasn't trying to make me feel goofy.  He just didn't want my gas tank lid hanging open down the highway.

Chivalry is alive and well in the midwest, folks.