Beatrice the Batty Buzzard
It wasn’t just that Beatrice talked a little crazy and did strange things, but she looked the part as well. Her neck feathers always stuck straight up as though she never even tried to groom herself, her claws were always dirty and crusted with fur and blood, and her eyes were wild. Nobody wants to be close to a buzzard with wild eyes.
The day she flew into Scrubby Palm Nature Preserve, she knew right away she was in trouble. In a flash she was surrounded by parrots, thousands of them, flitting and zooming and squawking, doing their best to chase her away. After one of the parrots attacked Beatrice from behind and pecked her hard on the head, Beatrice gave up. She spread her huge wings and soared out of the park on a gust of wind, finally landing on the cross beam of a wooden telephone pole. She hung her head and cried.
A high voice squeaked a greeting. “Hey.”
Beatrice glanced up at the sound and looked all around. Nothing.
“Down here,” the squeaky voice said. “What’s wrong?”
Squinting into the sun made it hard to see, but eventually Beatrice spotted the vole. Hardly big enough for a snack. “Parrots,” she said. “A whole flock of them. They just chased me out of Scrubby Palm.”
“They’re always like that. They think they own the place. I’m Victor the Vagabond Vole, by the way. And you are?”
“Beatrice.” She chose not to elaborate.
“Nice to meet you. Well, gotta keep moving. Don’t let the parrots get you down.”
The vole stopped. “Yeah?”
“I just want to thank you…for being nice.”
“Hold on. I’ll swoop down there and give you a proper hug.”
“Uh, a hug?”
“Sure. Is it okay with you?”
“I guess. Yeah, okay.”
And that was the end of the vole who tried to be nice to Beatrice the Batty Buzzard. Maybe Beatrice isn’t so batty after all.
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