This used to be my calendar. Image via WikipediaAfter my recent period of coma-based vacation, I returned home to a particularly notable lack of Max. My cattle were unspooked, my vegetable patch free of maps of the Holy land, and all the writing in my house hadn't been translated into Cyrillic. It was most disconcerting, I can assure you. Anyhow, I did the logical thing and set about tracking him down. I don't really want him back, but I've grown accustom to his ways. Besides, it doesn't seem fair to inflict him on other people, and I think I have legal responsibilities as his owner.
So, hiring a Native American tracker so stereotypical as to cause offence, I set off on my epic search. It was long, arduous and exciting, but I shan't bore you with the details. Anyway, regardless of the trials of my journey - filled as it was with magic, unicorns and sexy green beasts (Sorry, I know you're not interested in this) - I succeeded and found our wayward friend at last.
Of course, there was a complication.
He was in space.
Obviously
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