Sick Birds

My Bird, she is sick. 103-degree fevers two nights in a row with rosy cheeks and wilty eyes and a cough that rattles the windows. No good sleep for Bird or anyone else in days. No watching the series finale of the Sopranos as planned, because of all the muting and the “did you hear that?” and the “I’ll go snuggle her for a minute.”

Bird likes to hold the thermometer in her armpit all by herself. She keeps asking me to take her “pimpiture,” and if you’ve read this blog for more than a week or so you already know that my husband would think that’s hilarious, saying things like, “Awwww Yeeeyuhh, mah pimpiture is HAWT.”
Pimpiture will smack a bitch upside the mouth, yo.

Bird and I went to the doctor today and got frightened and medicated, in that order. And then we went to Pizza Perfect, at her request, because we treated ourselves to a delightful little lunch there (pizza by the slice, and they’ll cut it up tiny for her) after her vaccination bravery on Friday and now apparently that is what we do after doctor visits. Who can argue with that?

It was so crowded that we were forced to vulture a table right out from under another person wandering around hopelessly with their pizza tray, and to make up for it in the Universal sense, we invited another hopeless wanderer to dine with us in our empty seat. Which gave Bird such stranger-danger that she hardly touched her tiny-cut pizza.

On the way home while shouting songs at Bird in an attempt to put off the nap until back at our house, traffic was backed up at our exit and we drove slowly through what appeared to be a grand spill of fall yard-waste, red and gold colored leaves and clumps of mud, etc.

Upon closer investigation, we were driving through a large slosh of bird parts, maybe chickens, who knows, with legs and whole parts mixed in, flipping around and splashing blood. The smell was so horrible by the time we reached the large, open-topped truck spilling over with feet and feathers and chicken organs that I almost puked right there in the car.

And now there are entrails and feathers and a whole mess of carnage up under my wheel wells. And my husband, folks, is a dream come true not only with the fabulous quotes (“GLBT? That sounds like a sandwich. I’ll have a GLBT on sourdough.”) but with the immediate offering to clean the intestines and innards out from under my car without me even thinking to ask. Ladies, if you find a man willing to clean nasty chicken guts off of your car, marry him. You won’t be sorry.

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