For as long as I can remember the mockingbirds had been making a fuss over our daily path through the woods behind the mustard yellow house. Neither my old dog or myself paid them any mind. I don’t even think Madge registered their complaints these last few years, what with her hearing on the wane.
And yet every day we walked brought with it a fresh protest from the miserable peckers. One day, about three weeks ago, the old gal’s body just punched out on her without notice. Madge didn’t even have time to cushion her fall, landed with an ugly thud. It all reminded me of a pinball machine someone had unplugged. Those birds just kept jeering us, eventually dancing around the body in a way. I could have destroyed the whole lot of them right then. I could have squeezed one until it was no more. Then done another.