09 November 2008

TK Wants the Bug Dead

I have become lax. And with laxity, in this case, comes near death for a fierce, but tiny friend.

Equation: dog on couch + Sara on couch + bird flying over dog (possessive of couch) to Sara = a flash of teeth, an open maw, a blur of green, a snapping sound, the bird somehow on my shoulder, despite.

He sat on my shoulder wide-eyed and silent, breathing hard. He knew what almost happened. My own heart was pounding.

No more dogs on the couch, sorry pups. It just makes you growly and weird anyhow.

This is why birds do not live to be 35, 50, 70 years old.



I am a terrible mama sometimes.

But how can we not love each in their instrinsic natures, their sheer cores of wildness?

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