06 June 2008

Breaking Up With Bubbie

Jonesy has a multitude of nicknames for SSW. The list can be a little nauseating to the outsider, so I won't reveal it. She does call him Bubbie, maybe because she's a Southerner. She calls him that when she is madly in love with him, kissy-faced and good-bird-ing it to him.

Regardless, when SSW/Bubbie bit me 10 times in five minutes, I had to break up with him. The list of no's: no more shoulder rides, no more free snacks fed directly to him (root around already, dammit!), no more freedom while we ate dinner (that fork, connected to the soft flesh of my hand, needs to be avian-free), no more picking up. Scream all you want, dude, because you've pissed off Mama.

I mean, how rude, this biting fest, this mawing on the one who feeds you, your savior from the shelter, your daily bread. What a little bastard, says Jonesy, when I tell her what he did.

It's a pain in the ass for me. I duck to get out of his way as he flies through the hall, and I almost bump my head on doorknob. He gets on my shoulder and I make him step up to his rope perch, over and over and over again. The numbskull figures it out. That one, stay off the shoulder, just until she weakens.

Jonesy puttered around the kitchen talking to SSW: Now look what you've done. Your girlfriend dumped you. She doesn't even want to talk to you. At all.

I didn't. He could go sulk his little green ass in some other corner. I had wounds to heal.

No comments: