Rats with wings

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?

Me: …

GMB: Because of all its festering sores. Maud and Her Filthy Feathered Friend Fester: A Love Story.


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