“There’s a bog box that came in the mail for you today,” my wife told me as I arrived home from work.
“What?” I said. “That can’t be. I lost that auction on eBay for the blow-up Baltimore Ravens cheerleader.”
“Well, there it is,” she said, pointing to the shipping container on the living room floor.
My curiosity aroused, I opened it, began sifting through the packing material, and pulled out a long, skinny set of legs. “Ain’t no Ravens cheerleader got legs this bony,” I said.
And I was right, for in the box was none other than the literary lapwing himself, E.B. Heron, come to accompany me on my upcoming annual pilgrimage to Key West.
The first thing E.B. wanted once I got his legs attached to the rest of his body was a margarita. He even had a specific recipe that he insisted I use- two shots of Patron tequila, one shot of Cointreau, and the juice of two limes, shaken with crushed ice.
I told him that I did not have any Cointreau, and that he would have to settle for triple sec as a substitute. He scoffed about triple sec being a “poor bird’s” Cointreau, not fitting for such a fine specimen as he.
I began to wonder why I ever agreed to accept this stuck-up pile of feathers as a travelling companion. The bird gets a book written about him and now he thinks he’s Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
Then he started getting into this lament about how the grandchildren of his current landlady, Jody, kept burying him in the sandbox, and how he really needed that drink.
“Look,” I said, “I ain’t got no grandchildren here and no sandbox. But I do have four cats and the mother of all litter boxes. So you better mind your manners.”
He enjoyed every drop of the triple-sec margarita without another squawk.