“write from the point of view of a birdcage whose occupant recently died”
I wonder, sometimes, if they know what they leave behind. Some shit, some newspaper, some millet and seeds. How aware are they? What goes on in those little birdy brains? What are they squawking about?
They are such fragile little creatures. Completely dependent on their owners for everything. The owners watched a TV show once about the end of humankind, bringing me and my chirping occupant into the room with them. If, suddenly, all humans disappeared, dogs would take over the earth. Cats would be totally fine. But birds? Birds are prey. I mean, some might survive, but not this twitchy pulsing little creature who slumbered with a head under one wing.
The owners came home one evening to discover my occupant, dead on my floor. She cried. “It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll get another one.”
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