Elevator Pitch: Pecking Order
Running by a canal, I am joined by a feathered admirer. Pleasant companionship, till he (she?) overstayed, unwanted guest unleashing vitriolic retort when asked to leave. I stopped. He stopped. I ran, he ran. I asked him to go. He snapped, threatening my unborn grandchildren.
Impasse unresolved by runners and bicyclists who congratulate me on my marvelously trained pet. Thank you very much, but would you like to have him – for dinner?
Exasperated, I unleashed loud and angry recriminations, preferring Hindi, in case I offended passersby, casting the most serious aspersions on my follower’s parentage, his privates, the nature of his relationships. He hissed, spat and advanced. I attacked with my most advanced weapon – a stream of water from my bottle. He laughed in his own peculiar way and cocked his head.
The font of Modern Day Wisdom, powered by the Oracle of Mountain View, says he’d decided I was lower in the pecking order. That I must kow-tow, genuflect, kiss his ring.
Memory of his haughty demeanor will bring me down to earth if ever I raise my head too high. too high.