Everyone needs a fleet of flying monkeys to rip the stuffing out of the annoying people in their lives
— Laura

About four or five nights a week J accompanies Bobo and me on our evening walk around my neighborhood. Tuesday evening all three of us were walking when I gave a little tug on Bobo’s leash to stop him. All three of us stopped as I reached down to straighten Bobo’s bandana that had somehow gotten twisted around with the end flipping up. The following is the exact conversation that followed.

J: “Oh my God, look at you fixing his bandana!”

Me: “So?”

J: “So, you’ve never fixed my collar. I know for a fact that you have let me walk around looking like Count Chocula. Tell me you haven’t.”

Me: “I haven’t, you lie!”

J: “Uh huh, sure I do.  Just last week you let me walk around all day with my hair all messed up like Alfalfa. Now tell me you didn’t.”

Me: ”Well, okay, okay. But that shit is funny.”

J: “You are a terrible girlfriend.”

Me: “Aww, you know you don’t mean that.” *laughs silently as I look at the tag hanging out of the back of his shirt.*


See here’s the thing, when something like this happens you think “If a wonderful man like this who had so much- money, fame, opportunities, family, friends- can’t make it, what chance do I have?” Or maybe that’s just me.


If you’ve been reading my blog for a while you’d know that since getting my last car, I have struck and killed some wildlife. Seriously, I had never hit any animal prior to getting this car. It’s true. Since it’s been a while since I’ve hit anything I was starting to think my car had fulfilled it’s lust for blood, that is, until this past Saturday. While driving back from town, I pulled onto my street and from out of nowhere flew a beautiful woodpecker straight toward my windshield. I applied the brakes, served a bit into the other lane, but BAM!, sadly, it was too late. And so now is the time I give the latest victim of my Murder Car a proper name and a proper eulogy poem, because, well, that’s the kind of crazy I do.


Ode To Woodrow the Woodpecker
A Poem of Eulogy by Laura Ledford

You flew with so much fancy, from tree to tree you flit
But then you hit my windshield, you stupid little shit

I tried to swerve to miss you, but you hit with a thud like a rock
Like something straight out of The Birds by Alfred Hitchcock

And at first I thought I just clipped you, and perhaps you were not dead
But I saw your body flop, and on the window were parts of your head

Now you’ve gone to fly and hunt bugs hopefully in a heavenly sky of blue
Go in peace, my friend, ’till we meet again, and I’m sorry my car killed you


Now if everyone would please hit the ‘Play’ button and bow their heads in a moment of reflection and try to remember Woodrow as he was, not as the feathery flopping, headless mess he left here on Earth. Fly home, little dude. Fly home.