Frankie and Johnny
This is either Frankie or Johnny with my daughter Kelly. They were a pair-the parrots I mean. I couldn’t tell the difference between them. (I don’t like the way this story is going)
They lived in a big pandoroma just outside of our bedroom door upstairs at the gallery. It was not unusual for one of them to lose their footing on the roost, in the middle of the night, and tumble crashing about 3’ to the floor. It made a terrible noise that caused me to think someone was breaking into our gallery. So of course, I had to go down stairs, half asleep and half naked, to check it out. I hated doing that and always questioned the logic of doing anything at all.
What if there actually were a couple of huge convicted felons with big knives breaking in? What was I supposed to do, apologize for interrupting them and serve coffee to keep them from killing me?
On the other hand, If I called the police and just sat there waiting for them to arrive, it would be at least 20 minutes. By then half of our stuff would have been hauled away, and my wife would kill me. it was a no-win situation.
There was a story about a man who heard two burglars robbing his garage. He called 911 and the lady apologize and said she didn’t have anyone to respond, and hung up. So the man called 911 again and said, “forget my last call lady, I just shot the two guys and they are bleeding all over the floor.”
About 2 minutes later the police came rushing in and arrested both burglars. The 911 lady said, “I thought you said you shot them,” and the man replied, “I thought you said no one was available to respond.”
I think that’s what I’m going to do next time. Either that, or get my parrots a padded floor. f