The neighbors know who Betty is. We've been here almost three years and I still
And where was she the other day?
Oh, the panic. The heartache. Where is my Betty?
And I call her name and peek under all the subtropical plantings.
I shake her oatmeal tub.
I anticipate that sweet moment when I will see her eager paddling, her feathered sprint as she runs to greet me.
I scan the street for feathers. A dreadful, anxious task, but people drive fast and loose here and she never looks both ways.
And then, by sheer luck, I see her. She did not run to me. She did not peep. She dug in deeper, determined to make the most of this luxurious dirt bath. She knew... I know she knew... she had no business digging in the neighbor's newly planted yard, kicking up the fluffy, fresh soil.
Betty. Oh, Betty. This is not neighborly.