animal dialogue

Horace, you mope, get out here.

I'm not moping. I'm looking for a goddamn fork, and trying to forget what misery my last good deed cost me. I only meant well. Just tried to help out a friend. And look at what I get in return. Jesus. Where are the forks, anyhow?

You meant well, Horace? You sit on Maureen's eggs for the better part of a week, all the while you don't return any of my calls, and I'm left to explain to the geckos that we can't join them for brunch because my boyfriend values a stray jay's eggs over their friendship. And you meant well?

She's not a stray. We've known her for months. She migrated with us twice, for chrissake. Where'd you put the forks?

Yes, Horace, she migrated with us twice. She and her mate migrated with us twice. But ever since he left her for that sparrow with the fake plumage you've been over there quite a bit. I mean really, who asks someone to sit on her eggs for three weeks without wanting something more? Huh? Who does that, Horace? Tell me. Who?

She's a friend. And doubly, she's a she. We've been over this. The last time I chased plumage was back in college. Now where are the forks?

Yeah, but you enjoyed it didn't you? You liked the look of a nice bright plumage. The feel of a plumage ruffling up your beak. Big fake plumage. It never even looks real up close. You realize that, don't you Horace?

Damn it, Terrance, Maureen's a friend. And no, I don't like plumage, fake or otherwise. I was born for tail feather. I live for tail feather.

Excuse me? Who else's tail feather are you living for right now? Is that where you were last night?

No. Wait. What? The squirrels and I were out shitting on cars last night, you know that. Call Bill if you don't believe me. And anyhow, it's not just any tail feather I want. It's only your tail feather that I want. That I need.

Oh, you're just saying that.

I'm not. I love the look of it. How the sun catches it just right on those dewy mornings in the glen. How it bobs gently in the afternoon breeze when we're chasing butterflies. The way the moon casts it in a pale silver spotlight on our moth-ing nights. I love it all. I love you.

Oh, Horace. I love you too.

Splendid. Now where are the goddamn forks?

We don't have any forks, Horace. We're birds.

Oh. Right.

(432 words)