(White) Lies

The nephew just raced in to tell me "there's a bird sleeping on the patio! Come look, come look!" My heart sank but I followed him as he tiptoed quietly to the window (so as not to wake the bird) and whispered, "See, he's sleeping."

I didn't actually commit to the idea that he was asleep (sort of non-commitedly mumbled a "wow" and a "would you look at that."). Then I hustled him out of there with his mother to the park. I've cleared the dear departed away now, so I'm waiting for him to come back and want to see if the bird is still sleeping. I don't actually want to lie, but I really don't want to explain that the bird met his maker (or rather, the exceptionally clean french doors). It's just too nice a Friday evening for that.

It also reminds me of the time when I was little (around 5 or so), and my pet gosling kicked the bucket. Poor Pieter. Anyway, he died, and it was traumatic, and The Mother encouraged me to come away from the cardboard box in which his little yellow body was lying and talk to The Father on the phone. So I went along to tell The Father what had transpired, and then The Mother came back to get the phone. While she was talking to him I raced back into the dining room to mourn the dead. But to my shock, he had disappeared. The box was empty. Jesus had come down to take Pieter away to heaven. I was elated, The Mother was relieved, and it was years before I found out that she had removed the evidence while I talked on the phone.