Blended companions

As if we have time for normal.

Blended companions

Creating a mixed companion family is tricky. You'll find many articles written about the dangers of having dogs and parrots in the same family. If you have a panache for the dramatic there are bird groups that spend weeks sharing sad photos of bad outcomes. If you have a panache for the calm, there are bird groups that discuss the joys of same and best practices for having great outcomes with the blended lifestyle. I myself, have written a few articles posted on my website flockcall.com

This musings isn't that kind conversation. In all those words the humans leave out an additional point that needs attention. The human and their sanity. Like any good pharmaceutical ad I'll get the fine print out there right now. You will not loose your sanity if you blend companions into a lifestyle. You will loose other things. Clean floors. Wood door frames. Couch space. Chair space. Foot space. Personal space. Shirts with no holes. Socks. Shoes. Peaceful evenings. Peaceful days. Peaceful mornings. Backyard sod. Front yard sod. Fences, trees, bushes, flowerbeds, and a few potted plants. You'll loose money like a drunk in Vegas, at times. You'll probably loose a goodly portion of your blankets at night, while you sleep. You'll wake up to find a snoring fur beastie wrapped like a corndog in corn bread. But it's really your bedding.

Sanity itself is debatable. An existential question best reserved for those that care to write about it. I do not. You do you. I'll do me. We live too short a time to worry about that detail. What others think of us is none of our business. On the universal calendar of time/space we are not a blip. Barely a breath. So best to do you. Immediately.

On the way to essential I sat at a red light. Watching the world who had green go by. I pondered the people waiting to cross the street. The birds on the powerlines. The sidewalk that bridges Tinney Creek leading to our house. I watched a few ibis forage the lawn of a bank. Near the drive-through pavement. It's a long light. Timed for pondering.

Halfway through the pause of it, I saw her. She was standing on the opposite side of the street I was waiting to cross. Two fingerless gloved hands holding a scooter's handlebar. Right and left, ready to take off with a push. One foot dressed in a pink and yellow explosion of geometric colors, rested on the scooter platform. It's left mate on the pavement. Her hair yellow, not blonde. The tips black. Her makeup; gothic punk princess. She wore an OSHA orange velvet jacket over a T Shirt filled with graffiti colors that did not match her shoes, or her hair. She wore black leggings hugging thin legs. She did not weigh more than Angus. A slight, short statured marvel of a woman. She stood there confident. She waited. She pulled her hood up over her head just as the lights were about to allow her to cross MLK toward me. She was brilliantly living. She was doing her with severe prejudice. Boss. She was at least seventy years old or better. You go girl. My sanity needs to loosen up.

I find myself in the produce section essentialing, thinking on a gothic punk princess. Which slips to seven parrots with very specific preferences. Which leads to needing to remember to stop at the meat section to get raw broth bones for the dogs. After dinner mints for K9s. Which reminds me to check when the Pasta Wheelies will be delivered by Amazon. Do I need backup pastas? Which there really isn't any such thing. But I am committed to stand in the dry pasta aisle fantasizing Felix finding shapes in his bowl in the morning. Pondering his response to long pastas; Bucatini, fettuccine, pappardelle, spaghetti, linguini, tagliatelle, vermicelli. Or the short pastas; Campanelle, casarecce, cavatappi, fusilli, radiatori, rotini, elbows, farfelli, gemelli, penne, rigatoni, orecchiette, ziti, conchiglie, orzo, or Ditalini.
Only rotelli will do. I bring myself back from the depths of imagining piles of pasta strewn on a floor where dogs butt snorfle each other to eat as much as they can. I grab a broom and fight them for dominance. Ridiculous thought experiments. Pasta Wheelies are the only Felix Approved Pasta. What? Am I insane?
 

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