A Theory From My Button

Today, I dressed in cargo shorts, flip-flop sandals, and a pullover, short-sleeved, white shirt with a collar. The shirt did not have a designer emblem on its front or back; I generally hate giving large companies advertising space for free. There were three buttons on the shirt, all of them near the neck. I never wear shirts that have been buttoned all the way up; it is much too restrictive for me. Neither do I wear shirts unbuttoned below the second button; that seems to be a sign of a man who is trying to hard. The two-out-of-three button arrangement is the style I prefer on sports shirts.

Shortly after I finished buttoning the two lower buttons, the middle one spoke to me. “What’s up with all these twigs and leaves on the floor,” it asked.

“The Cheegle brings them in,” I answered.

“You know,” my button went on, “I don’t get out of the closet that often, but it seems to me that little dog is acting like a bird that is gathering material for a nest.”

I was a little surprised my button knew about bird nesting; it had never mentioned the subject before. “I think you’re right,” I said, “and I think that is very perceptive of you.”

“I have a theory,” said the button.

“Yeah, what’s your theory?”

“Well,” said the button with great authority, “by observing all the dogs that live with you, I think a case can be made that dogs evolved from dinosaurs. All I have is empirical evidence, but it seems to me to be a plausible theory.”

“To be honest,” I told the button, “I believe your theory is rather daft. I think the prevailing scientific belief is that dogs evolved from wolves.”

“That’s true,” my button said, “as far as it goes. But, you need to go back further than wolves. Where did wolves come from?”

“Wolverines?”

“Very funny. Wolves came from dinosaurs who came from birds, ergo, your dogs are birds.”

“Get out of here. The six dogs that live at this house came from a shelter.”

“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”

“Not very. No offense, but you are only a button after all.”

“I understand. Uh, you might want to take a look at the dog bed in the corner. I think the Cheegle laid an egg.”

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A Bird In The Brain Pool

For the past two days, I've had a mind fungus growing. Although its medicinal properties may have helped prevent unwanted bacteria from running amok in my frontal lobe, the fungus seems to be interfering with the small, creative-juice pool in my cranium. It is running dry.

Since I try, for the most part, to post original content on this blog, I am desperate for material. In the past, when I've fallen into a creative slump, I have resorted to posting pictures of the dogs and cat that live with me. It is a cheap, yet effective, way to offer visitors a snack when I'm too tired to prepare a meal. So it is today.

I found the little bird pictured in this post in my backyard. It could not yet fly, and Sophie and Lily were barking at it. There are a lot of large trees in my yard, and I could not determine from where the bird fell, so I made a nest for it and filled it with grass, bird seed and water, hoping its mother would somehow rescue it. I put it on the picnic table so the dogs would leave it alone, and then went back into the house and let nature take its course. A couple hours later, I checked on the bird, and it was gone. A happy ending, I hoped. About 15 minutes later, Catherine the cat delivered the dead little bird to me as a present. Is it just Catherine's nature to kill, or is she evil? The question is not unlike that I ask about man. I think the real question might be, "Do I care?"

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