The Birdman

In the past, I’ve refused to answer the door when I wasn’t expecting someone to be visiting me. Benj was most unhappy when he discovered this fact. He’s of the belief that an unexpected caller could always be a courier delivering an exciting parcel for him. Even if he hasn’t bought anything, entered a competition, or had a birthday recently, apparently it’s still a very likely possibility.

So since moving up here I’ve started answering the door. And you know what? All my door-answering fears have been coming true.

I’ve had both Mormons & Jehovah’s Witnesses.

I had a deaf man who was trying to sell me the alphabet (as communicated via flashcards), which I must say I admired as a con so ludicrous that it’d probably work.

I’ve had the crazy Homecare distributor lady pounding on the door all hours of the day and night trying to reclaim the catalogue she allegedly left on my porch.

Today, though, something happened that even my vivid and paranoid imagination couldn’t have created.

Our front path is lined with lots of annoying little white stones. This means you can hear visitors crunching through the front yard. The porch is also very old, so it creaks when you climb the steps. These sounds will now act as a signal for me to run away very, very fast.

I was in the bedroom today, folding laundry, when I heard the crunching and the creaking, followed by pounding on the screen door. Remembering the promise of Benj’s mystical package* I immediately went to see who it was.

A middle-aged man stood on the other side of the flyscreen, cradling a small bird in the palm of his hand. It quickly became clear that he was profoundly mentally retarded. It seemed that he’d found the injured bird somewhere on the pavement, and that he wanted some kind of container to carry it in when he went to the vet’s office.

Being careful to leave him standing on the porch, keeping the flyscreen locked, I eventually found one of those plastic tubs you get takeaway food in, and lined it with paper towel. When I hurried back outside and offered it to the man, he told me that he thought the bird was dead. And that he’d been knocking on doors for quite a while, and most people thought it was dead. But that he’d been continuing to knock on doors, in the hope of finding someone who didn’t think it was dead.

He put the bird in the container and stood there for a while, ignoring my attempts to hand over the bird coffin. I was feeling more and more uncomfortable, so was only vaguely insulted when he asked me what time my mum and dad were coming home, and if they’d be able to take the bird to see the vet.

I gently reminded him that, in my professional opinion, the bird was already dead.

He was starting to get very upset, and kept insisting that if I took the bird to the vet it would get better. I could see where this was going, and quickly made a choice between having an old retarded man crying on my porch, or having a dead bird somewhere in my immediate vicinity.

I asked him if he wanted me to look after the bird.

The man nodded, told me to make him better, and shuffled off. So now I have a tupperware container filled with decomposing bird. I’m not entirely sure what to do with it. Throwing it out seems very harsh, and giving it to the kittens would just mean I’d have a lot of blood to clean up. I think there’ll be a funeral at our house tonight.

Since this all happened (not long ago), it’s occurred to me that the scary man might come back to check up on the bird’s progress, or even to reclaim him and take him to live at his sheltered housing facility.

Thus, I am never answering the door again. Even if I am expecting someone. So Benj’s courier-delivered, life-size replica of Maya Ford’s bosom will just have to be returned to sender.

*If I ever direct a porno, I’m so calling it Benj’s Mystical Package.

Hypochondriac Kittens

When you call the vet to make an appointment, the receptionist, after hearing you give your surname, shouldn't say, "Oh, is that you, Samantha? Who are we seeing today?"

Benj has blogged about Fishlegs' recurrent bouts of sickness.

He blogged about Leela's amoebic dysentery.

He didn't blog about the time that Marty, asserting his alpha-cat status, scratched his little brother's eyeball.

Nor the time, only a week later, when Marty scratched his big brother's eyeball.

And, had he been blogging back then, he may have written about Imogen's diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after spending a week in the World's Worst Cattery, where she was housed next to a cage of rottweilers.

Today, however, I took Mr Marty to the vet due to the explosive diarrhea he's been suffering from for the past week. And has now passed on to two of the others. (I noticed that it could potentially be a bigger problem than I thought when, after having been woken up by horrendously loud squelching sounds accompanying his bowel movements, I noticed that his anus was red, pissed off, and protruding about an inch further than it should).

All of my cats seem to enjoy fucking around in the vet's office. Leela likes to jump on his computer's keyboard and try to open the jar of treats he keeps for good patients. Fishlegs likes to piss in his central-heating vent. Marty kept up the tradition by splashing about in the sink for a while, then trailing his wet pawprints across some important looking documents.

We have 5 syringes to give to 5 uncooperative cats filled with (and I quote) 'a pleasant caramel flavour'. Maybe I missed something, but since when did cats like eating caramel? Shouldn't it be anchovy flavoured or something? This is some form of pre-emptive strike to be started before the poo results come back from the labs. Yep, I supplied the vet with a plastic bag full of excrement. He was pleased with this gift, and supplemented it with what he found on a cotton bud he inserted in Marty's anus.

Also, there is to be further food segregation. Fishlegs is to continue his I'm-a-fat-bastard-with-calcite-in-my-pee diet, which is currently served to him in the bathroom. The 3 affected by the mysterious poopy ailment are to eat a special hypo-allergenic variety of biscuit until their digestive tracts recover. I figure they can continue eating in the dining room as usual. Idgie must also eat the hypo-allergenic kibbles, in case she gets sick, too, but must be segregated from the ones who already have the runs. I don't know where she'll eat. I don't much care. Benj can be the dinnertime funmaster. Surprise, baby!

Cats are great. They're like sickly retarded children who never stop being dependent on you, eat your magazines, and occasionally try to kill you. And, being obviously mentally subnormal myself, I really do love them.