“Hey, what are you doing here by yourself?”
“Working. It’s not 5 yet. How was your trip?”
“Good. I have to go now. I’m going to a party later, and I have 5 kilos of giraffe meat in the car.”
He brings a piece in, wrapped in a bag, and practically throws it at me. It is the size and weight of a bowling ball and smells of fresh blood.
It’s a good thing I’m not a vegetarian.
I’ve been house-sitting for a friend of mine for the last week. Actually, it’s more of a cat- and hamster-sitting gig; I’ve been suffering from a lack of sleep, as each night, two persistent cats try to get as close to me during the night as they can. Usually they sit on my head, particularly when it’s 6am, and they’re tired of waiting for me to get up and feed them.
I got home last night to find a large pile of pigeon feathers drifting forlornly in the breeze of the open bedroom window.
I looked in the bed (remembering a friend who awoke one morning to find a squirrel’s head resting on the pillow, a la The Godfather – I didn’t want to get into bed only to be eyeballed by a mauled and bloody carcass); I looked in my backpack; I looked in my laundry basket; I looked everywhere.
I can’t find the goddamned pigeon.
