I have been wondering whether to put these thoughts on my blog entitled No Crying at My Funeral or just restart my 365 Thoughts with pure white feathers all over the front of the house.
I got up, showered and looked out the window to check on the weather. What I saw on the ground was a bunch of white shards of something. I know that I didn't have a white light globe anywhere, so I wondered what all those white pieces could be. Once I had covered my wrinkled self to shield the world from the obscenity of my prune-like ugliness, I went out for a closer look. What I saw was a fairly rare display of the leavings of what had to be a clash of interest between the recipient of gentle nibbling kisses from the sweet lady who forgot to close the gate on the cage and a raving, hungry cat, or some other craven carnivore. Actually, some of the parts were still in pretty good shape. The wings were still practically intact. So much so that some other crippled bird could use them. Except maybe, a hummingbird. The tail was nowhere in sight. Breast and down feathers were decorating the gleaming dewy area with their still pristine white sheen. The tail feathers were bent and damaged and strewn around in an repugnant display of the effects of effective violence. Imagine, all the poor cockatoo was able to muster was a sad, "Kiss my ass" defense. Is it significant that the head is nowhere to be found?
I know that some of you are awaiting a moral to this story. There is one, of course. In fact, there might even be several. Some may come from the Bible, some may come from another source. Some may be moving for me and some for you. If you're young, (most of you are) you may not be moved at all. If you're old, maybe you're not moved, just reassured that the warning to "be prepared" is not just for the Boy Scouts. Wherever you fall on the scale of this true story and the moral of it, remember: Lock the cage; Lock your house; Lock your car.
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