Marshall and the Angel Shelf

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A Land of Osbourne Tale of Chaos, Catitude, and Cranial Drama


It was about two years ago, around 4 a.m.—that witching hour when the house is quiet, John is at work, and the universe decides now is the perfect time for nonsense.


Marshall, my little Indiana Jones kitty, apparently woke up feeling bold. Heroic. Adventurous. Ready to conquer new lands.

And by “new lands,” I mean the angel shelf above my bed.


He went for the jump.

He missed the jump.

But he somehow, in true Marshall fashion, managed to grab two angel statues on his way down.


One of them?

Yeah.

It clocked me in the head like a divine fastball.


Did I wake up screaming?

Did I leap out of bed in panic?

Nope.

I muttered something spiritually profound like “ow,” rolled over, and went right back to sleep.


Sometime later, I woke up sweating. That weird, sticky feeling.

I reached back to brush my hair out of my face…


…and my entire hand came back covered in blood.


Instantly wide awake.


I looked over at my pillow. Also covered in blood.

My first thought: Oh that’s not great.

My second thought: DAMN IT, MARSHALL.


I made my way to the bathroom, where I found the culprit—cowering like I was going to ground him for the next 7 lives.

Buddy knew. He KNEW.


I turned on the light.

Looked in the mirror.


My face and hair?

Think Carrie, prom night edition.

Thanks to a flying angel statue.


I took a picture (because of course I did) and texted John what happened. He somehow managed not to have a heart attack right there at work, and rushed home to take me to the ER.


Doctor takes one look and offers two staples.


TWO.

Actual.

STAPLES.


I declined. Politely.

(And by politely, I mean internally screaming and externally smiling.)


And that is the tale of how Marshall attempted a 4 a.m. archaeological expedition, missed the artifact, and nearly split my head open—with an angel.


Because in this house, even the heavenly objects have attitude.


😇😅🐾


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