The Golden Rule

Me. Far right, second row. Renee, directly behind me.
One of us was perfectly dressed.
It wasn't me.

I'm a horrible person.

I mocked/made-fun-of someone.

I have repented.

It was my first day of school.

I was breathlessly, happily, finally in grade one.

I had just enjoyed my first bus ride.

It was bumpy and dusty.

But magical.

I had been duly delivered to the sidewalk outside my brand new school.

Where I stood in indecision.

Okay. The other kids were lining up at the doors.

I followed.

A tall, slender woman was calling for all of the "Grade Ones!"

I saw several kids about my size line up beside her.

I followed.

The bell rang and Miss Warnoski turned and went into the school.

We all followed.

In Miss Warnoski's room, we toted our book bags (mine was homemade by my Mom) to our first desk.

I was in the second row.

Second seat back.

It had my name pasted onto it.

D-i-a-n-e S-t-r-i-n-g-a-m. I spelled it out by tracing with a finger.

Yep. That's me!

I watched to see what the other kids were doing.

Unpacking.

Okay. I could do that.

I began to pull out thick, red pencils and half-lined scribblers.

Cool. There was a cubbyhole under the desktop that could hold a mountain of stuff.

Soon it was home to my stuff.

I hung my bag over the seat back, sat down at my desk, folded my hands together on top, and let my legs swing.

School was a breeze.

Miss Warnoski began to teach.

Okay, not such a breeze.

Then, it was time to line up for Recess.

Capital 'R'.

The great unknown.

I followed.

We filed back outside. And kids began to run and play.

This was Recess?

Pffff. What was I worried about?

This was just like playing with kids at home.

In fact, I recognized some of the kids from playing at home.

Suddenly I was in my element.

And that's when the trouble started.

I should point out, here, that I didn't always get into trouble during recess.

It just seems like it.

Moving on . . .

There was a tall, very slender girl in my new class.

Renee.

She had long, silky, platinum-blond hair, perfectly groomed.

And she was dressed in the very pinnacle of fashion.

Something that would remain a trademark with her throughout our school years.

And something that would pass me by throughout . . . you get the picture.

Today, she had on a poofy pink dress.

Which I secretly thought was very pretty.

And of which two or three of the other kids were making fun.

They called out jeers and snide remarks.

A five-year-old's version of insulting.

And none of which I can remember.

Probably a good thing.

But it looked like fun!

I would join in.

"Renee, you look like a big, poofy candy floss!"

Renee just smiled. As she had been doing all along.

And suddenly, I didn't feel all that clever.

In fact, I felt stupid.

I had made fun of someone.

And I didn't like it.

I handled my new feelings of embarrassment and chagrin with aplomb and maturity.

I went and hid.

Till the bell rang and Miss Warnoski came to gather all of us.

I've forgotten much of what I was taught in grade one, I'm sure, but one thing stayed with me.

Don't say anything you wouldn't want said to you.

Okay, I never had to worry about anyone teasing me about my 'candy floss' dress. Or any dress for that matter.

But you get the point.

Our Vicious Attack Dog named Muffy!?

Muffy. Okay, she got bigger . . .

We only lived in Winnipeg for eight months.

It was a beautiful city.

It just wasn't home.

But, in support of the breadwinner and student in our family, we had packed up our household and moved.

Dogs and everything.

Now anyone who knows our family, knows that we are completely enamoured (good word) with Old English Sheepdogs.

Hair and all.

So when I say that we moved bag and baggage to Winnipeg, that includes our dogs.

Plural.

Because what's one dog without another dog, right?

And both of them need a dog . . .

Okay, my husband didn't get it , either.

I should point out, here, that OES (see above) are extremely gentle and friendly.

Though they can be protective.

But that is another story . . .

We lived in a townhouse.

Having moved from a mobile home in Alberta, we were overjoyed with all of the extra room.

But that townhouse had a miniscule yard.

Or, in other words, tiny.

That's where the whole 'missing the great stretches of prairie' came in.

I would let my dogs outside, and they would turn to me, doggy faces frozen (another common Winnipeg expression) in shock, as though to say, “What? You expect us to run in here?!”

I would point and tell them to 'go run!'

They would sigh and trot to the far (I use this term lightly) fence.

And back.

In about 3 seconds.

I would shake my head and close the door, leaving them outside for a little while to get some 'exercise'.

Yeah, it didn't make much sense to me, either.

One morning, I had put Muffy outside by herself.

She wanted to go.

And no one else did.

This isn't rocket science.

A few minutes after I put her out, my phone rang.

Cool. Someone wanted to talk to me!

I answered.

It turned out to be my letter carrier, calling from the nearest phone booth. (Cell phones existed only in the minds of Science Fiction writers at this time.)

She couldn't get into my yard because of the vicious dog guarding the gate.

There was a vicious dog in my yard?

How did it get in?

And where was Muffy?

I dropped the phone and hurried to the door.

Swinging it wide, I peered outside cautiously.

Muffy, standing beside the gate, turned and looked at me.

And then I realized that the vicious dog spoken of was my 35 pound stick. With hair.

It's true. An OES, shaved, looks like a toothpick.

On toothpicks.

Yep, the dog world equivalent of a 98 pound weakling.

While I'm in information mode, I should also tell you that OES don't have tails. They are nipped off soon after birth.

Thus, when the dog is happy, or excited, or hungry, or tired, or worried, or . . . you get the picture . . . they wiggle.

Their whole back end.

It's quite a sight.

And that was what Muffy was doing.

So this pile of hair, back end shaking like a hula skirt was what had frightened the letter carrier.

Okay, I guess I can understand.

Someone who isn't used to dogs could certainly be intimidated by the sheer size.

And the motion.

But, to me, it was funny.

That anyone would be frightened of Muffy . . .

I grabbed my dog, apologizing profusely and dragged her away so the carrier could complete her mission.

Then I explained that she was extremely gentle, and even introduced the two of them so Muffy would know that the woman was a friend.

And vice-versa.

All was well.

Until I received a notice from the postal company that no more deliveries would be made to our house if our vicious dog was in the vicinity.

Okay, this had gone a little far.

I looked down at my 'vicious' dog, currently the bottom of a game of 'dog pile' with my boys and sighed.

But we complied.

Yard time was moved to the afternoon.

To avoid any conflict.

And wussie letter carriers.

P.S. I completely understand that not everyone likes dogs, and that some of them even have an irrational fear of dogs that they really can't control, so I apologize to them for this story. I'm the same way with guard-chickens. But that is another story.

Little Sister

L'il Sis

I have a little sister.

She looks just like me.

Except that she has red hair.

And big blue eyes.

And a cute little chin.

And long eyelashes.

Okay, she doesn't look like me at all.

I love her anyways.

We grew up together, as often happens in families.

And had experiences.

Which also often happens in families.

When Anita was two, my mother asked us older kids to take her swimming with us.

Brave woman, my mother.

But I guess she thought that Chris, at 16, was responsible.

And she was.

Really, really responsible.

When she was awake.

A bit older. Just a bit

On this particular occasion, she had her radio. And her dreams of her current boyfriend.

And the warm sun. And the hot sand.

You're right. It wasn't her fault.

She dozed off.

The rest of us played happily for some time.

I was standing knee deep in the milky water, trying to catch a fish that insisted on swimming tantalizingly close.

Closer. Closer.

Then a strange sound intruded.

A sort of . . . gasping.

I looked up.

Five feet from me, little Anita had toddled off the sandy shelf where she had been sitting, playing, and fell into the river.

She was just coming up for the second time.

Nonchalantly (I like that word), I reached out and grabbed her swimsuit, pulled her out and plopped her onto the sand once more.

She gasped and coughed a couple of times, then went back to her toys.

I turned back to my hunting.

It wasn't until years later that I remembered the incident.

And shivered with 'what might have happened'.

*  *  *

When I was ten, my oldest sister, Chris, moved out.

I suddenly had that hitherto (real word) unheard of treat - my own bedroom.

It was wonderful.

During the day.

But, being alone at night for the first time, I made a discovery.

At night, things looked vastly different.

The darkness held many suspicious creaks and shadows.

And, unfortunately, my imagination was always awake.

I needed a companion.

Someone who would protect me from . . . whatever lay in wait in the dark.

My sister's room was right next door.

Okay, she was three, and who knew what she would be able to do if we truly were confronted with . . . whatever lay in wait . . . you understand.

But she was warm.

And breathing.

She was all I had.

Carefully, I would creep into her room, lift the sleeping little girl from her bed, and tuck her into Chris' side of the bed.

Then I would happily snuggle into my side and fall immediately asleep.

If Mom asked in the morning, I simply told her that Anita had crawled in with me in the night.

Everyone was happy.

And no one knew that Diane was afraid of the dark.

Until now.

Oops.

*  *  *

A few years later, we were in the river.

Again.

And Anita was with me.

Again.

This time, it was my turn to be in charge.

And think about boyfriends.

Because my boyfriend was with us.

He and I were sitting in the sand at the edge of the water, visiting, when a sound intruded.

Again.

Only this time, it had just a bit more volume behind it.

"Diane!" someone shrieked.

I looked up.

Anita, who had been floating quite happily close to the shore in an old inner tube, had strayed too far out into the river.

She was now in the grip of the current.

Nonchalantly (that word again), I waded out. Then swam that last few feet towards her.

This time, however, when I grabbed her, she grabbed back.

And nearly drowned me.

Finally, I managed to turn her and her inner tube away from me, then kicked the both of us to the shore.

Then really shivered with 'what might have happened'.

Why do so many of our near-misses happen in water?

*  *  *

Who wouldn't trust that little face!

Today, Anita is a wife and mother. She runs a million-dollar business that she created. She is a flight attendant and cub leader and community organizer.

And still has time to run and keep fit.

But when I think of her, I still see the little girl who broke the lamp for which Blair took the blame.

Who was bright and cute and smart.

And who gave Mom the last of her grey hairs.

The little girl who loved to organize.

And wrap packages.

And get into my things.

And who's middle name, though she would claim it's Faye, is really Trouble (notice the capital 'T').

Today. Or at least not many days ago . . .

Huh. In some ways, she hasn't changed.

But now, she lives most of a continent away.

I miss her.

I love her.

Cleaning . . . And Underpants

Mom, with Chris and Jerry.
Mom's the goofy one in the middle.

Mom liked cleaning.

With six kids, one husband, assorted hired men and various other duties and hobbies, she did a lot of it.

A lot.

I think she did it in her sleep.

Certainly, she did it in ours. If we lay down on the carpet in the front room for a nap, we would be picked up and cleaned.

That's just how Mom was.

But, as with any demon cleaner, sometimes the clutter and rubble would get away from her.

Particularly if she was busy with a project and unable to follow us Neanderthals around, picking up and tidying after us.

I can remember two instances when this was brought hilariously to my attention.

The kids in the neighbourhood had been playing at my house.

I don't remember what we were doing, but it involved toys and games.

And mess.

After most of the kids had left, Mom came out of the kitchen and surveyed the detritus that can only be the result of many small bodies . . . having fun.

While she was standing there, Laurie, from next door, twitched her apron.

Mom looked down.

"You sure have a messy house, Mrs. String-am!"

I don't know what Mom said in response.

Probably something tactful, knowing my Mom.

But the story lost nothing in the retelling.

Another time, George and I were playing under the kitchen table.

Yes. Under.

I know. Weird.

Mom was bustling around in the business area of the room.

She opened a cupboard.

And pulled out something . . . unexpected.

"What the . . . who put this underwear in my cupboard?!"

What she was holding was actually a pair of swim trunks.

Light grey.

With sharks printed on them.

But why quibble over details.

George and I stared at them.

Then laughed uproariously.

Mom snorted, folded them neatly, and carried them to their proper home.

We never found out who left them there.

Over the years, I've made up several scenarios that would account for it.

None practical.

Or believable.

But after that, at least once a week, George and I would hide something 'underwearish' (not a real word - I made it up) in Mom's cupboard and wait for her to find it.

Then laugh ourselves silly when she did.

Okay, we were little.

Things were funnier then.

There is an addendum.

I was busy in the kitchen, cooking, cleaning.

One of the myriad duties that accompany the care and feeding of six kids and one husband.

I set a pot in the sink and turned.

"What the . . . who put these dirty socks on my cupboard?!"

I had turned into my mother!

It's a good thing.

My 'Almost' Pet - and My Dad

Daddy and Me. And George. I'm the one with the curlers in her hair . . .

I like dogs.

If I had to state a preference, I would have to admit that I favour big, hairy ones.

Even if they slobber.

But, truth to tell, I like all kinds.

Pointy. Fuzzy. Smooth. Dreadlocked. Naked. Huge. Tiny. Rat-sized. Medium. Purebred. Heinz 57.

If it resembles a dog in any way, I’m well on the way to being smitten.

And I’ve always been this way.

Dad can tell you.

In the past, if any member of the ‘doggy’ fraternity crossed my path, I was ready to welcome it with open arms.

Literally.

And therein lies a tale . . .

I was playing with my friends on the school playground.

I’m not sure what we were playing, probably something noisy.

And dangerous.

But I digress . . .

A dog wandered into our sphere.

A black and tan dog.

Thin and wasted, with the worst case of ‘post nasal drip’ I had ever seen.

But with long, silky hair and beautiful, but sad, teary brown eyes.

I loved him.

He would be mine.

And, my dad was a vet.

He could fix my new best friend!

I clutched a handful of hair, just behind the dog’s head, and led him to my house, two blocks away.

The rest of the kids followed.

Because.

We were an ‘in the moment’ crowd.

What can I say . . .?

It took a long time, with frequent stops for my new friend to rest, but finally, we arrived. My Dad met my dog and me as we came up the drive, followed by the rest of the neighbourhood.

“Umm, Diane? What’s going on?”

Dad was used to me. If I detected a trace of . . . hesitancy, that’s probably because he had learned to view anything I did with . . . hesitancy.

Smart man.

I looked up at him expectantly. “Daddy! This nice doggy is sick!”

“Umm, yes, I can see that . . .”

“Fix him!”

Dad glanced at the dog. Then he looked at me.

I put on my most endearing face.

At least, that’s what I was going for.

He knelt down.

Yes!

He looked the dog over. “I’m afraid he’s really sick, Honey,” he said.

“I know. Fix him!”

He sighed and stood up. “Wait here a moment.”

I turned and grinned at the other kids. See? My Dad could do anything.

Dad came back with a syringe filled with something . . . fixy.

He injected the dog and patted it on its droopy head. “There. That’s the best I can do.”

I looked at the dog. It wagged its tail slightly. See? It was better already.

“Can it come and play with us?”

“I think the best thing would be for it to rest here in the garage.”

“Umm. Okay.”

He helped me lay out a blanket and settle my doggie on it comfortably. Then he closed the garage door and told us to let him rest.

We did.

I peeked in through the garage window a couple of times.

It was easy enough if I dangled from the clothesline just outside.

But my little friend just lay there on the blanket.

Getting better.

The next morning, I leaped out of bed and charged down the hallway, on my way to see my new friend.

My Dad met me at the door.

“Oh, Diane, your doggy is gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“His family came and got him.”

“Oh.”

I was sad, but I knew that Dad had injected him with just the magic elixir (yes, we used that in the 50’s) that would heal him entirely. And thoughts of my doggy running and playing with his family cheered me.

All was well.

There is an addendum . . .

I was visiting with my Dad last night and he recalled the story of my little short-term friend.

I smiled in memory. “Oh, yes. The one with distemper. The one you saved.”

Dad looked at me and shook his head. “Actually, I didn’t save him,” he said. “The shot I gave him was to lessen his pain. He died that night.”

I hadn’t thought about that little dog for over fifty years, but suddenly, I could picture the soft, brown eyes. The long, silky hair and funny, tan ‘eyebrows’. The skinny body.

I felt unaccountably sad for the little fellow.

But, just as suddenly, I was grateful to my Dad.

For his skill. For his compassion.

He did manage to fix him after all. 

If They Look Like Peas . . .



Admit it, they would fool anyone!

But they look like peas!
They open, like peas.
And they have little pea-type things in them.
And if they look like peas, and open like peas and have little pea things in them, they must be peas.
I love peas.
I'm eating them . . .

The Anderson family lived in a geat barn of a house at the very top of the hill in Milk River. It was my favourite place to visit. And to play.

Not only did my best friend, Kathy, live there, but there were lots of other kids to play with (12 in all) and they had this amazing house with an infinite number of rooms and hallways and balconies and little, hidden cupboards. We could play pretend for an entire day and never run out of spaces or scenarios.
And to make things even better, across the road on the north, was farmland. With barley crops taller than we were, ripening in the sun.
I should mention here that Milk River produced three Barley Kings. An award given for producing the best that the barley world had to offer.
To me, barley simply made an excellent hiding place.
And along the road, on the East, screening the Ellert farm from the Anderson's back yard, was a high hedge of caragana.
That, in late summer, was hung with thousands of . . . peas.

We had been playing hard most of the day and it was nearly time to go home for supper.
We were hungry.
Kathy did the smart thing. She ran to her house to find food.
Her sister, Laurie and I decided to forage for ourselves.
After all, there were all of these peas that no one else was picking.
We simply couldn't let them go to waste.
Have I mentioned that I love peas?
I grabbed a big one and opened it.
Huh. Well, they weren't quite the right colour, but they were approximately the right shape and size.
I ate one.
Yuck. Not great. Well, the next one will be better.
Okay, it wasn't.
Maybe the next one.
Okay, all of those were pretty much awful.
The next pod will be sweet and tasty.
Nope.
Well, maybe the next one.
And so it went.
I can't tell you how many of the awful things Laurie and I ate. It must have been quite a few. Because we certainly got sick.
I don't remember much about that part.
Mostly because I was unconscious at the time.
Who knew that peas could do that?
But I learned my lesson.
Never again would I snack on peas that grew, temptingly, on trees.
From then on, I stuck to things like . . . buffalo beans. Adult aspirin. Dust bunnies.
Oh the gastronomic adventures!
How did my Mom survive?
How did I survive?!

The Takin' Off of the Green - or - The Panty 'Caper'

Me - at my best . . .

I hated them.
Maybe it was the color. Yucky green.
Maybe it was the fit. Tight elastic on the legs.
Whatever.
I only wore them under duress, when there was simply nothing else in my drawer. And following a highly intellectual and diverting argument with my Mom . . .
"Put them on, Diane!"
"Mo-om!"
"Put them on!"
Sigh.
Being the semi-obedient four-year-old that I was - and because 'going commando' hadn't been invented yet - I would haul my little green panties out from under the bed where I had hidden them and . . . shudder . . . pull them on.
Quickly, I would then hide them under a pair of blue jeans and try to put them out of my mind by heading outside to play.
They itched.
They crawled into unwanted places.
They made me sweaty.
Sighing, I ignored them and joined the group of kids on the corner.

Now a couple of points of background . . .
In 1959, as in every neighborhood in Canada, weather permitting, we local kids gathered. Play commenced. As our mothers were working busily in their homes, we kids ran up and down the street, engaged in one of a thousand different imaginative schemes. At lunchtime, we were called home. We ate as quickly as we could, then returned to the street. Our mothers cleaned up and went back to their ironing or canning or one of hundreds of other chores. We kids played until supper was announced.
When the lunchtime scenario was again enacted.
Actual physical parental supervision was unheard of. We policed ourselves. Tattled on each other. Looked after each other. When Kenny fell and broke his arm, an army of kids ran to his house and brought his mother. When Brenda got sick on the merry-go-round, same thing.
It was a wonderful, carefree way to grow up.
Also, at this particular time, my Dad and older brothers had put up our family's brown canvas tent in the back yard.
I know this doesn't sound like an actual part of the story, but wait for it.
Now, back to my story . . .

My best friend and next door neighbor was Laurie. A sweet-tempered, agreeable girl just a bit younger than me.
She followed me in everything.
Not always a good idea.
By early afternoon, I had been wearing the dreaded panties for much of the day. They had been my largely unwelcome companions while running, climbing, crawling, doing gymnastics, climbing, rolling, spinning, climbing . . . okay, I did a lot of climbing, but that is another story.
They were really starting to bug me.
But there was no way I would ever be able to sneak into the house to remove them.
And then it hit me!
If I ducked into the tent, I could shed the dreaded panties and my Mom would never know!
It was a brilliant plan. Awe inspiring.
Completely fool proof.
I acted immediately.
"Were are we going?" Laurie was right behind me, as usual.
"Into the tent."
"What are we going to do?"
"Take off our panties."
"Okay."
Did I mention that I often got Laurie into a lot of trouble?
In a few seconds, the deed was done. I wadded my cast-offs into a little ball and stuffed them down into a hidden corner of the tent.
Laurie did the same.
Then I pulled on my jeans and headed back outside.
Laurie followed.
Hah! Mission accomplished. No one would ever know.
Our friends were sitting around in my front yard, breathing hard from yet another race up and down the street. I pranced to the middle of the circle with Laurie close behind.
"We're not wearing any panties!" I sang out.
Okay, so, secret agent material, I wasn't.
"Panties!" Laurie echoed.
And suddenly, Laurie's mom was there, grabbing her little daughter and running with her towards their house.
I watched them go, wondering at the shocked and dismayed expression on Laurie's mom's face.
What on earth was wrong with her?
Maybe I should point out here that Laurie's mom always dressed her in frilly, feminine dresses.
Short-skirted dresses.
I got a lecture. Something about modesty and being a good example.
Who listened.
Parents are so weird.

The Real Family Bird-Brains



Admit it. He's cute!



I have birds. 



Zebra finches, to be exact.

They are easy to take care of, make cute little-bird sounds and are infinitely entertaining to watch.

I love them. It is a love affair that has been going on for fourteen years, now.

It all started innocently enough. I was directing a play that required caged birds as part of the premise. A local bird shop supplied us with a canary, two doves and a finch.



A cute little finch with a smart polka-dot waistcoat, red cheeks and a black and white striped tail.

It was love at first sight.

During the days, not thinking it wise to leave our little rent-a-birds at the theatre, I brought them home with me.

One day, while I was in the other room, I could hear a cheerful little song. Rising and falling notes that sounded almost as though someone were swinging on a tiny, rusty gate. (A musical, tiny, rusty gate.)

I thought it was the canary, noted for their singing.
Entranced by the sound (and yes, I meant to use the word 'entranced'.), I hurried into the room, and stopped beside the canary cage.

The little yellow bird turned and looked at me.

And the little notes kept on.

Could canaries still sing if their beaks were closed?

My knowledge of birds was truly woeful.

I moved to the next cage. Two sweet doves blinked at me sleepily.

The third cage.

And my little maestro was revealed. Singing his little heart out.

My heart was captured.

He was my new - 2 ounce - Jose Carreras.

And my hero.
Later, onstage, when all the other birds were frozen with fear as the spotlights of the theatre shone on them, I heard that same little song.
Miraculously, with people spouting lines and charging back and forth across the stage, my little finch still found the courage to sing.
That was it. I couldn't part with him. He had to be mine.
Fortunately, my husband agreed and, at the end of the play, when the other birds were returned to their shop, Peter stayed with me. (Peter finch. Has a sort of ring, don't you think?)
Soon after that, I decided that my little Peter needed a little mate.
And so Polly, she of the beautiful white feathers and similarly striped tail, joined our household.

She and Peter immediately set up housekeeping and a few weeks later, Piggy hopped out of the nest. Followed shortly after that by Pepper, Poppy and . . . Percival? Pat? Plethora? Preamble? Pancreas? (I'm ashamed to say I've forgotten his name. I do know it started with a 'P'.)

They quickly outgrew the cage that had seemed so large only a short time ago.

My husband made them a new cage. A large cage in the shape of a grain elevator. (Yes, Virginia there is an elevator . . .)

And my birds became a permanent part of our lives.

They are constantly busy. Constantly doing 'birdy' things.

Constantly entertaining.

One can almost hear the conversations as they alternately groom each other, or chase one another madly around the cage.

"Yes. Right there! That's the itchy spot. Oh get it! Get it!"

Or . . .

"Stop that racket!"

"But it's the same song you were singing five minutes ago!"

"I don't care! I don't like you singing it!"

Or better yet . . .

"What are you doing in my cage?!"

"I live here!"

"Well, who said that could happen!"

"What are you talking about? I was born here! To you!"

Or the ever popular . . .

"I don't like the way you look!"

"But I'm your son, I look like you!"

"Don't change the subject!"

In all the years of raising them, I have only been able to touch them when they first leave the nest and haven't quite gotten the knack of flying. Even then, I can only touch them for an instant.

I quickly pick them up, band their legs and let them go.

For that second, with the tiny, frightened bird quivering in my hand, we are truly one.

Then they are released and become another cute, busy, easily-panicked member of my little finch society.

It's the only thing I wish I could change.

Well, that and the mess of torn newspaper and scattered feathers and seeds that constantly litter the floor beneath and around their cage.

I've tried taking them to task for this, using forceful, penetrating words similar to those I used in raising my own children . . . you little monkeys! You're acting like slobs! D'you hear me? Slobs!

They never listen.

Wait. Neither did my children!

Hmmm. Children. Birds.

Am I seeing similarities?





See the elevator?