On a smoke break, GMB points to a motionless pigeon next to a fence. The following conversation ensues.
Me: I hope it’s not dead.
GMB (smiling and speaking as if to a small child): Because they’re so much prettier when they’re alive?
Remember, rats with wings, Maud. Rats with wings.
Me: I don’t think it’s dead. It’s just sick. And resting.
GMB: Well, why don’t you take it home and nurse it back to health?
Me (thinking of the time my mother saved a baby bird and it turned out to be a rooster that she kept in my shower for six months): Let’s not get carried away.
GMB: And then we can write a children’s book about it: Maud and Her Filthy Pigeon Friend.
No, wait. The pigeon would need a name. Why don’t we call it Fester?
GMB: Because of all its festering sores. Maud and Her Filthy Feathered Friend Fester: A Love Story.