Wednesday, December 11, 2019


There's a buzzard staring over a computer at me. He's named Sydney Filbert, and he wishes to know if there is any fresh carrion in this household. Or anything that attracts flies, really.
He's peckish, and curious about dinner.

He is a new resident of the household, really very handsome.
An early birthday present for my apartment mate.
Who channels for stuffed creatures.

Surely we won't let him go hungry?

I've already mentioned the cookies and the apple-caramel pie, but, seeing as these do not normally contain rotting meat, he has made it clear that they will not do. How about a dead cow?

Buzzards, also known as Turkey Vultures, do not have beaks that are strong enough to go through the hide of most largish cadavers as commonly occur in the suburban areas surrounding San Francisco, where the streets are sometimes littered with roadkill. Socccer moms, bovines, lost joggers, and warthogs. So someone normally has to make the first incision or puncture in the skin, a task often left to larger beaked creatures such as condors. We have no condors in the Bay Area as far as I know, so I guess I'll have to ask the butcher to hack into the skin a few times before I bring any dead farm animals home. Or an elephant seal.

Unless Sydney develops a taste for hot toast and marmalade. And Italian sausages or little meatballs.

Maybe a chihuahua from the pound occasionally.

He is clean and soft, and concerned with hygiene.
He asked "donde está el baño" right away.
He'll probably fit right in.

ATERWORD as of 8:22 PM

Sydney Filbert throughly enjoyed the grilled Italian sausages with blue-cheese mustard from Trader Joe's and toasty sourdough. He dined fabulously well, chomp chomp chomp. So we may be cool.
He didn't say anything about the hot sauce.

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