I took a step into the kitchen, and I heard a noise and glanced at Milo who (Yes, I know, you don't use 'who' for an animal, but what would you use in this context?) acting strangely, with, what looked like, "are they feathers" coming out of his mouth? WTF? As I turned the coffee machine on, I saw the sparrow sitting on the roof beams of the glass roof.
"Oh really, Milo?" (Read as a long, drawn out, exhausted whine from yours truly) "Reeeeeeeeally?"
What is it with cat's fascination with bringing their prey indoors? I had a friend with 2 Siamese cats, and it was 'de rigueur' for them to bring in rats to their bed Saturday and Sunday mornings. Look what I have? Er! NO!
I opened the back doors and got a broom. Then I tried to push the sparrow into the lounge room and closer to the open back doors. Milo continued to leap about in the atrium plants, so all I could hear was the rustling of leaves and the occasional flash of blue fur in my peripheral vision, which was distracting - read, aggravating. I grabbed him and took him upstairs and threw him into the bedroom with still sleeping Sam.
All I managed to do was to push the sparrow into the skylight in the kitchen, where it flapped around in the old, now degraded, sun perished towels Mark had stuffed into the edges of the vented sky light, years ago, to stop the draft, which rained down in small pieces onto the kitchen floor like burnt confetti, or desiccated pieces of the shroud of Turin (if the Shroud of Turin had, in fact, been a real thing) as the coffee machine whirred into life.
The bird flew down into the pantry, and behind something and out of sight. It seemed to completely vanish, fall silent. I pulled out Sam's condiment trolley, the bottles on which clinked, the rice cooker, my Kenwood mixmaster, the plug for which swung down and hit me in the right kneecap, which would have smarted if I wasn't otherwise distracted, the huge tub of rice, the 44 gallon drum of olive oil, the 20 kilo dog food bag, the 10 kilo cat food bag, the bag of plastic bags, the green supermarket bags, the potatoes, the carrots, the bag of onions, like a man possessed, but no bird. It was as if it had simply disappeared into thin air. Poof!
I rattled my hand behind the microwave, contemplating unplugging it and removing it too. Stop! Stop! Just stop!
Big breath, big exhale, big head spin. WTF? Silence. Stillness.
The small bird must have flown out the open back doors, shrug, hands in the air, in my mad haste to find it in the pantry, there is no other explanation for it. (The kitchen is open to the lounge room which is open to the back doors)
The contents of the pantry lay in the middle of the floor with a surreal sprinkling of blackened debris all around them, like it had been a huge jumble sale where a small portion of the goods had gone up in flames, or there had been some ritualistic burning, you know, smudging and the like. Scratch of the head. I should have taken a photo, but I was only in an awake state for something like 5 minutes by that stage.
I slid a mug under the coffee machine spout and pushed the silver button, and as that made its characteristic whirring sound, I stared at the pantry door as if that would solve the mystery. Or was I still in a half-sleep state exhausted from such a sudden burst of energy? Who can say? I went and got the vacuum.
Welcome to Melbourne Cup Tuesday, I thought. I wondered if I should look at the field and see if there was a horse called, Little Bird, or Reigning Ash, or something?
All I managed to do was to push the sparrow into the skylight in the kitchen, where it flapped around in the old, now degraded, sun perished towels Mark had stuffed into the edges of the vented sky light, years ago, to stop the draft, which rained down in small pieces onto the kitchen floor like burnt confetti, or desiccated pieces of the shroud of Turin (if the Shroud of Turin had, in fact, been a real thing) as the coffee machine whirred into life.
The bird flew down into the pantry, and behind something and out of sight. It seemed to completely vanish, fall silent. I pulled out Sam's condiment trolley, the bottles on which clinked, the rice cooker, my Kenwood mixmaster, the plug for which swung down and hit me in the right kneecap, which would have smarted if I wasn't otherwise distracted, the huge tub of rice, the 44 gallon drum of olive oil, the 20 kilo dog food bag, the 10 kilo cat food bag, the bag of plastic bags, the green supermarket bags, the potatoes, the carrots, the bag of onions, like a man possessed, but no bird. It was as if it had simply disappeared into thin air. Poof!
I rattled my hand behind the microwave, contemplating unplugging it and removing it too. Stop! Stop! Just stop!
Big breath, big exhale, big head spin. WTF? Silence. Stillness.
The small bird must have flown out the open back doors, shrug, hands in the air, in my mad haste to find it in the pantry, there is no other explanation for it. (The kitchen is open to the lounge room which is open to the back doors)
The contents of the pantry lay in the middle of the floor with a surreal sprinkling of blackened debris all around them, like it had been a huge jumble sale where a small portion of the goods had gone up in flames, or there had been some ritualistic burning, you know, smudging and the like. Scratch of the head. I should have taken a photo, but I was only in an awake state for something like 5 minutes by that stage.
I slid a mug under the coffee machine spout and pushed the silver button, and as that made its characteristic whirring sound, I stared at the pantry door as if that would solve the mystery. Or was I still in a half-sleep state exhausted from such a sudden burst of energy? Who can say? I went and got the vacuum.
Welcome to Melbourne Cup Tuesday, I thought. I wondered if I should look at the field and see if there was a horse called, Little Bird, or Reigning Ash, or something?
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