Genetic Windstorm

I admit it; I spent yesterday away from the house, tromping and skulking to avoid Mordecai. As with every family, we have our disagreements, and while we are both rather aged, our disagreements are long-standing and difficult to ignore.

I am attempting to let bygones be bygones, for now, and have been up on the widow’s walk with my brother, watching the wind come across Brooklyn. I am ignoring the fact that Mordecai smells suspiciously of smoke and lychee. That usually means that his mind is whirring with evil plans. Charles assures me that Mordecai has changed, but I have been around my brother for too long to fully believe the dapper sea horse’s words. (As I have Bubo, so Mordecai has Charles. He wears a rather natty hat that is a bell jar and that is where Charles resides, attempting to police Mordecai’s worst impulses and acting as a small and spiny conscience.)

We are sipping mint juleps and discussing jet propulsion and wind energy. So far a thoroughly delightful afternoon.We have set up a small umbrella over Charles’ bell jar to protect him from the sun, and I am wearing my dark sun goggles to protect these delicate peepers.

Contentment never lasts around Mordecai, so I am keeping one eye sober and open. Bubo, for her part, has not eaten out since he’s arrived, the better to watch him. Unfortunately, this means she’s especially cranky and even the coyote jerky I gave her (an early birthday present) hasn’t improved her mood.

I can not blame her. Coyote jerky is not as tasty as it sounds.

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