Wild In the Streets
…is what I currently am. Since I’m awaiting a doctor’s appointment for, um, digestive issues, and anticipating a long and dreary round of elimination diets, I’m doing the sensible thing and eating all the stuff I’m afraid they’ll tell me I can’t have. Except for ham and sausage, which make me very sick. I told myself I would not blog about the upcoming embarrassing adventure, but I make no promises, since I once live-blogged about my colonoscopy prep. Until it became impossible.
Speaking of wild things, let’s…
CHECK IN WITH NICK
The said beast is waiting for his latest egg to hatch.
“Well, it’s not mine, exactly. I didn’t lay it. The shell isn’t mine.”
“Don’t lie on your back like that. You’re indecent that way.”
“Well, I could do a privacy tail, like this–” he whips it neatly into place–“or I could do this,” and he curls up tightly, with his tail on his head.
“You look like an armadillo that way.”
“What’s an armadillo?” he asks, uncurling.
“Well, it’s a scaly thing…quite a bit smaller than you are, though.”
“Edible, I presume?”
“Uh, I don’t know.”
“You lead a boring life,” he says, flicking a wing dismissively.
“You should talk. You’re the one waiting for an egg to hatch. Where are the other two cubs, by the way?”
“I sent them out to play. They kept rolling the egg around. They can’t wait for her to hatch! So I told them to go out and practice their flying.”
“How are they doing?”
“Well, Thing One is getting pretty good. Thing Two can finally get up in the air, but he still has trouble turning, and crashes into stuff.”
“Have you decided on a name for the new one?”
“Well, Thing Three, obviously. You are so dense sometimes.”
“Did you explain that girl-beasts don’t have wings?”
“Well, they can figure that out, by looking at their mother. She left to get some food. I offered to bring something back, but she wanted to get out and hunt for herself. Of course, it may take her longer to find something, being wingless and all.”
“I heard that,” says the she-beast herself, appearing in the entrance. Her voice is muffled, since she has something bloody in her mouth. It’s hard to tell what it is. Or once had been.
“It’s only reasonable,” Nick tells her, warming up to what must have been a familiar argument, “since you can’t go, you know, soaring through the skies, searching for prey on the ground…”
“And would you have been able to get this“–she indicates the bloody heap at her feet–“crashing through the underbrush with those wings? I think not.” She settles down and begins to feed.
“Can I have some?” he asks.
“No. Get your own. In the underbrush.”
“Hey, have you ever heard of an armadillo?”
She raises her head. “I had one once. Scaly. Not worth the trouble.”
The egg doesn’t look any nearer to hatching than it did when I arrived, so I head out the door.
I am still playing with the photo feature for the blog. I have the uneasy suspicion that’s it’s been here all this time, and they’d just moved it from the side (where it used to be–some of you might remember that this thing used to be illustrated) to the top, where it now resides. I tried to make the picture less huge, like it used to be, but if there’s a way to do that, it eludes me. (“Lots of things elude you,” Nick says as I’m leaving. “I bet an armadillo would, too.”)