Weird Willy

The omens are bad.  Two years ago, a storm blew a baby mockingbird from its tree.  I saved him from my vicious (kidding) Chihuahuas, but I could not put him back in his nest; I dare not climb the spindly branches that his parents chose to build on.  Instead, I placed him in a thick set of Indian Hawthorns and his mother fed him from there.

Weird Willy survived this early trauma, but he was never quite right.  Socially challenged, I’d say, and I don’t think he ever lured a mate.  He went around disrupting other couples and never understood the concept: two’s company, three’s a crowd.  He was amusing though.

Now, I’m afraid he’s been a victim of Mr. Hawk.  First my best friend and now Weird Willy is gone.   

Call me superstitious if you want, but I’m going to be very, very careful for awhile.  Bad luck comes like a train wreck, one car slamming into another.

 

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