Birds of a Feather

This morning, while out for a walk with Oliver and Maggie May, I saw the Unabomber.

At least I thought it was him. He was wearing a hoodie that said Kansas College or Kangaroo University. Not sure. Hard to read from across the street. But he definitely looked like the rendering that the nice sketch artist made of him back when he was running from the law.

Anyway, the Unabomber was also donning the same kind of cool mirror sunglasses I remembered from the artwork, and his nose was as sharp and straight as a ruler. He even had an overall, flinty appearance, if you ask me and looked as young as ever. Hadn’t aged a bit. Not one iota, if truth be told.

I wanted to ask, “Mr. Unabomber, do you still carry around your manifesto?” But then I thought the better of it.  For all I knew, he was planning his next hit.

He didn’t look open to having a conversation, not in the least. And though I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d been up to all these years, I didn’t dare ask. Was he planning a comeback of sorts? One shouldn’t assume anything, I suppose.

So I looked away and spotted my favorite little bird.

Now, don’t ask me why but I love birds. Might have started with my thing for owls. But if you were to put a bunch of birds in a lineup and ask me to name each breed, I’d look at you aghast and say, “NO WAY.” I can’t do that.

I don’t pretend to be an expert. I just like them that’s all. Looking with my naked eye—and of course it’s naked, why would I put clothes on either of my eyeballs?—I would say we have a few different breeds of birds in my neighborhood. I’ve seen a hawk, gads of crows—because everyone knows what a crow looks like—and one sinister looking owl. We also have lots of small birds, mostly colorless ones, maybe some with a splash of champagne pink on their chests.

And then there’s Duffy.

Duffy is a very little gray bird. I named him Duffy, as it was my prerogative to do so. Duffy is unlike other birds. I’ve never actually seen him spend any time with his breed. He’s often on his own. If you ask me, this little guy has a one-track mind: He loves to stare at himself in the mirror, and I’m sure the very act of it has built up his confidence tremendously.

So how did this happen? Well, don’t ask me. All I can tell you is that there are a lot of cars parked on the street by the park, at any hour of the day, and most of these cars have side mirrors. Well, Duffy was fluttering around one of these cars and soon happened upon the side mirror. Which is when he practically terrified himself when he encountered his reflection in one of those mirrors. Maybe he thought it was another bird, but soon he figured out that it was his own reflection. Which is when he went amuck. And that’s the way it’s been ever since. Every morning when I walk Maggie May and Oliver, we see Duffy having a grand ol’ time by the side view mirror, fluttering to and fro, and I have to admit, it’s pretty remarkable to see.

I’ve never seen a bird so happy, this side of the Mississippi. You rock, Duffy. I may be retired–or moving on, as some might say–but I look forward to seeing the Duff bird every single day.

Incidentally, I no longer like owls and I’m rather suspicious of Unabombers, too.

So we’re heading to the park now to see Duffy. That’s all for now.