(Ah, song lyrics as blog post titles)
Anyhow… so I am getting the house ready for Gene’s return tomorrow. I was in the bedroom, minding my own business when, for some reason I needed to walk down the hallway.
And there stood Betty, our corgle, looking exceptionally proud.
And next to her was something that looked for all the world like a wet dark piece of cloth. My first thought was, oh, what did that effing dog eat now?
And then reality clicked.
THERE WAS A DEAD BIRD IN MY HOUSE.
A DEAD BIRD IN MY HOUSE.
My first instinct was to scream – not a loud shrieky “cause for the authorities to bust in the front door” scream, but more of a “Calgon take me AWAY there is no man in my house and today was Paycheck Printing Day” scream.
A DEAD BIRD IN MY HOUSE.
When I was a little girl and we lived in the ghetto, I found a dead bird and brought it to my mother. I think I put it in her lap.
Speaking of my mother, I called her because I had no idea what to do other than flip the fuck out. Leaving it for the dog walker to find tomorrow just occurred to me (dammit), so mom very kindly advised me to cover it with something and scoop it into something else. Thank you old Saturday edition of the Cheesecake Daily News and Macy’s bag. You have served your country admirably.
A DEAD BIRD IN MY HOUSE.
(Sorry, I’m going to keep saying this for awhile longer).