ME and ~ME, A True Fable

~ Me: I wake up the other day from the narcotic coma my parents referred to as a nap, dodder upstairs feeling old from the dope-waking up combo, see the ladder in the kitchen, look mildly confused.

Fleur reports: There was a bird in the house.

~Me: Oh.

F: It shat on the window and the wall; that's why the ladder's here. (we have very tall walls, passive solar house, clear-story windows) (yes, my mother can conjugate the verb "to shit")

~Me: Oh.

F: Then your cat killed it. I found it by the cat box.

~Me: Oh. . . . . . . . . That's what she had in her mouth when she and Goofus went by my room. (no affect, had in her mouth before my daily coma)

F: Yes.

~Me returns to my room. Ten minutes later ~Me thinks to collect the bird corpse.

Me: It was a barn swallow. I adore barn swallows. They're pretty, their songs are Mozart joyful, and they are crackerjack architects. Me would have realized that the blurry, flapping thing in Plume's mouth was a bird, hopped right up to rescue it, disappointed the cat.

~Me thought: oh they must have found a sock.

My cats do not play with socks.

Good pain killers do make a difference.