Aesop, Revisited

The other day, I was walking my dog and admiring all of the flowering trees. I never look up, because when I do, I end up performing a face plant due to uneven sidewalks, potholes, trap doors, holes to other dimensions — what have you. I went down just a week or so ago, right in front of the fire department. Oh, but didn’t they have a good chuckle? It was all in good fun — at my expense, of course. Something about having to perform a rescue operation right in their driveway. Yes, I’ll have a good chuckle, too, when my lawsuit check comes in. All the way to the bank, biatch. Who, me? Sore sport? If it weren’t for my twisted ankle and bruised ego, I’m sure I would have seen the humor, too. (Never mind the fact that I almost fell down the subway stairs and tripped two more times that same night. Sadly, I was completely sober. Fucking heels. I mean, er, damn city sidewalks. Did I just ruin my chance of suing?)

But this other day, I was finally coming out of a grumpy spell, due in part to all the little blossom petals drifting down in my path like confetti. And then, I slipped. I skidded right across the  sidewalk, like I had stepped on a banana peel. Since I was out walking my dog, my initial thought was, oh, please, please don’t let me have stepped in dog shit. Wouldn’t that angry little Asian lady feel so vindicated? Well, I guess my prayer was answered, because it most definitely wasn’t dog poop. It was a dead baby bird. I just skated down the sidewalk on the slimy insides of a mashed baby bird. Now isn’t that a modern-day fable? Hilarious, really. Wasn’t there a movie where every time someone wished for something, they got it, but at the gruesome expense of someone else?

Since that day, I have seen dead baby birds all over the sidewalks of my neighborhood. I’ve been counting. We’re up to 8 now. Either avian flu or west nile has taken over Brooklyn, or everyone and their mother is hoping to God they didn’t step in dog shit, and God is having a grand ole time answering their prayers.