Reminds me of intriguing and strange tales heard while working at my mom's General Store in Holstein, a hamlet of about 150 people and half as many canines and four times as many black and white cows, 143 kms northwest of Toronto.
Here's one about animals (not much of a surprise since around here plesantries usually include animal antics...you know, "how are you? Sure is rainy out there. Hear about what happened to my cat?") that I will call Dumb and Dumber.
“My husband despises birds,” chirps the easily-excitable play lead [from the theatre production I was involved with at the time]. We are sharing pet stories. Well…they are. I am merely observing, sipping punch, watching, listening. “Atleast he does now. He used to love little Larry our snowflake-white canary. They got along. But the new parakeets…he can’t stand them.”
“How many do you have?” inquires another actor, batting
heavily mascara-ed lids and swishing blonde wig strands from her eyes. We are awaiting the beginning of our last
performance and the atmosphere is surprisingly relaxed. Perhaps too relaxed – some slumped in
child-size classroom chairs, appear close to dozing.
“Well, we had two.
But now there’s just one.”
“Named…?”
“Dumb. Dumber died.”
“You had birds
called ‘Dumb’ and ‘Dumber’?” She sounds
as though she doesn’t want to believe this truth, looks at me, and rolls her
eyes.
“Yes…”
“How do you know it’s Dumb who’s still alive?” pipes up a
voice from across the room.
“Well, of course it’s Dumb.
The one who dies HAS to be dumber, don’t you think?” She cackles at her
own apparent wit, and takes a long swig of juice. Upon hastily drowning her drink she runs a finger across her lips
and continues.
“My husband hates dumb.
But Larry….well that was another story.
He and Larry would sit and watch TV together. The two of them just staring at the screen, hubby in his lazyboy
and Larry on his cage perch in the corner of the room.”
She doesn’t seem to need to breathe as she relays
stories. The details are endlessly
forthcoming.
“At Christmas we put in the tree and poor Larry was craning
his neck – all crooked and bent trying to see that damn TV and you know what
my husband did? I thought he’d let Larry out, or move the
cage, but no…NO! He just up and
disappeared and next thing you know he’s back from the garage with the
hedgetrimmers. He chopped a big ole
hole outta that tree – a circular chunk out of one area so Larry could see
right to the TV. He didn’t even need to
crane his cute little feathery neck, not one little bit…”
I should have let it go.
But I was curious.
“Why does he hate the new one. This Dumb one?”
“The bird won’t shut up.
He throws pillows at it but it won’t learn to shut up.”
“He throws pillows at it?”
“It doesn’t HURT it?”
“Are they down pillows?” giggles one of the women. A few of us groan at this lame pun.
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