Tuesday, January 17, 2006
I also like to kiss his little drumstick legs.
I love Fritz's smell.
He smells a little bit like his pellets, a little bit like the outdoors and a little bit like poo. The first thing I have to do when I take him out of his cage is sniff the narrow space on his back between his wings. When I breathe in and out of my nose really fast I can lift the soft little feathers up and down and make them flap like he's flying. He looks very rumpled when I'm finished. I do make certain to only do this when I don't have a runny nose.
One of these days I'm going to accidentally suck up a loose feather and get it lodged in my sinus. Then I'll have to have it extracted and I'll be written up in a major mental health journal for my bizarre and troubling behavior and a case study will be done on women in their thirties who have made their pets into surrogate children. There will be TV ads for drugs to treat this condition in which a woman with a tragic expression on her rapidly aging face is surrounded by a shower of little falling feathers. The drug will be named Surraxate, or some other such name invented to imply the elimation of the need for displaced affection.
And here I thought Paxil would be enough. Apparently not.