I walk into the house and Bowie-dog greets me with a way-too-big smile.

Me: “Okay, hello to you, too.”

She wags her tail and practically dances into the back yard. I turn the corner to find… a bird. A bird standing in the middle of the living room. An outdoor bird, but it’s in my house. It’s as foreign as a tree growing from the floor. A terrified tree. (A petrified tree?)

The bird is stunned but alive, and it’s breathing fast in the center of a roulette of feathers and spittle and shit. And guarding this soiled intruder, high atop her pile of blankets, is Tweak. And by “guarding” I mean “ignoring.” With her eyes closed.

Me: “Tweak… what the…”

Tweak: “What.” It is never a question.

Me: “Um… why is there a bird here?”

Tweak: “A bird?”

She opens one eye.

Me: “And why is it alive??”

Tweak: “Alive?”

She opens the other eye.

I stomp my foot. The bird rattles and shits on the floor.

Me: “TWEAK!”

Tweak: “What.”

Me: “WHY IS THERE A BIRD HERE?!”

Tweak jumps down off the couch. She sniffs a trail of avian leakage across the hardwood floor and pokes her nose right up against the beak of the frightened hostage. The bird flinches and squirts out an oily grey symptom of serious concern.

Tweak: “Yep. It looks like a bird.”

Me: “Why didn’t you do something with it while I was gone?”

Tweak: “I was busy.”

Me: “Busy??”

Tweak: “Napping. I was exhausted from that frog debacle the other day.”

Me: “So you did NOTHING?”

Tweak: “I told that dog to take care of it.”

Me: “I believe that dog may have nearly suckled it to death.”

We both stare. The bird is damp. There are clusters of feathers like a blast pattern around it. The bird releases another stream of terror onto the floor and looks to me for salvation. Or possibly a towel.

Me: “I’d better put it outside.”

Tweak: “Keep it away from that dog. I think she’s in love.”

 

4 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak.”