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Change. I've learned to embrace it, ride it out til the end. Sometimes I'm kicking and screaming, other times weeping with my eyes clinched tight. Once in awhile I ride like a dog in a car, head out the window snorting what life has to offer. Mother to young adult children, a marriage of thirty years, and a desert to mountain to valley waltz with God have shaped me into someone I never imagined I'd be. Life is short and I want to live it. Tears, sighs, laughter and change. Every morsel granted to me. Scrambled, shaken or stirred.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Scribbles and Scrambles ~ Pat's Puppet





I've shared Pat's (my dad's) rocky relationship with Sunshine the parrot. Lately that rocky relationship has turned into mountainous terrain with snow and ice encased pathways that could crash and cause disaster at any moment. Seems Sunshine is not a happy camper. Not a happy anything. Pat has spent an unnatural amount of time in the office aka parrot habitation. And Pat's white calves taunt Sunshine from across the room.

Sunshine's Nightmare. By Sunshine Parrot

Pat's calves maneuvering the office chair on rollers from computer to printer and back again are begging for a bite, for the claws of fury from poor, little caged Sunshine.

Oh, Sunshine has tried. He's closed his eyes and attempted not to notice the soft, pinkish flesh. He's tried. Sunshine can taste the legs, he's almost had them before. So close. Pat is not known to be quiet. Oh no. Pat laughs out loud at e-mail forwards and tosses out a frustrated bark when the stupid numbers don't add up. Pat is not known for his love of paperwork and computers that do not cooperate. Shudder. Bad. Bad. Bad atmosphere in this room.

Sunshine forces his focus to the calming background music but he can hear those calves calling to him.

It's gotten so bad that Sunshine must refuse to leave the cage. The woman has betrayed him by leaving this Pat to click endlessly on the machine. Sunshine will eat, eat and fluff and grunt his complaints. But that's it. No more Mr. Nice Parrot.

Last week was the final indignity. The water dish needed to be washed out. The woman has fallen for Sunshine's threats and wouldn't dare stick her hand in the cage. So Pat volunteers. Sunshine gulps to keep from salivating. Not a juicy calf, but an arm will do.


Suddenly, Pat laughs and holds out a denim-armor encased arm. He slides the door open, slips in the blue covered arm, grabs the water dish and replaces it with fresh, clean water. All the while talking in a stupid voice as if his arm is a puppet.

Sunshine may start throwing seeds. Or, hmmm, is there another thing he could do that might become a Pat-be-gone? Sunshine will hum to himself and think happy thoughts of revenge. Night Pat.