Blue woke me up early early this morning trying to meow around the dead bird in his mouth--it had been dead a long time, which made me wonder if Blue was perhaps trying to take unearned credit for the kill. A plagiarized parakeet. Which sounds like a very good book title. The Chickadee Cheat. THe Fraudulent Feathered Friend. Pelican Piracy. Thrush Thievery.
Thank god-the coffee's ready. Hang on.
So anyway--I disposed of the poor, stiff little corpse, while Blue, overcome by either depression over his loss or a guilty conscience, sprawled out on the tiles by the fireplace and stared at me reproachfully, which kept me from getting back to sleep. Then he started cleaning himself- (ugh-with a mouth that had so recently held death. The Morbid Mouth.) And he got one of those burr things caught on his tongue. Which was very funny (to me) but by then I was really awake. Well, coffee, a post. Just like old times, I thought.
And how nice! There were posts to read. OF course I can't help but make the connection between the stiff, dead bird and that old man. Rigor Mortis, the final erection. Now I'm feeling philosophical. |
