I’m reprinting this because yet another woman I respect has made the curious mistake of proclaiming birds cute. While Susie isn’t an award winning mystery writer, I suspect that people who fall into the category of former midwife/ice cream parlor operator/journalist would been held in the same contempt by my parents as they held award winning mystery writers.

Last Wednesday a curious email arrived in my inbox from award winning and critically acclaimed mystery novelist Nancy Pickard. The message was simple enough, if a bit cryptic. It consisted entirely of the phrase “Moose, my ass,” and a hyperlink to the website of a Connecticut wild life rehabilitation organization named Back to the Wildlife Rehabilitation, Inc.

Sensing that this was a somewhat hostile reply to my January 8 post contending that moose are cute, and indeed no joke, I wrote back to Ms. Pickard expressing my surprise at learning that she is a moose hater. She replied, “Moose are stoooopid.”

Realizing I had a challenge on my hands, I set off to explore the Back to the Wildlife Rehabilitation website, curious what sort of adorable animals could be found there that would prompt an award-winning mystery novelist to proclaim “Moose, my ass.” What I found were some birds in various stages of rehabilitation. In my industry, we would refer to these birds as “reconditioned.” If you were shopping for a bird on Woot, you would need to seriously consider whether or not the low price was due to its “like new” condition or if it was just a lousy bird to begin with. You can be sure that more that a few of your fellow shoppers would be complaining heartily about yet another day wasted on a reconditioned ornithological product.

Let’s have a look at the best of the bunch, shall we?

Ok, not all bad. This little fellow has some of the essential ingredients. He’s small, juvenile, feet are too big, covered in soft down, has great big eyes and he looks utterly helpless. Yeah, I’ll admit that’s pretty cute for a busted up bird, but holy shit, have a look at this moose!

Case closed, I’m afraid.

This sorry incident does bring up a far more serious subject and a lesson I failed to learn as a youth, despite the best efforts of my elders. Among the earliest lessons I was taught by my parents and grandparents was that I should avoid, at all costs, any interaction with award winning mystery writers and that nothing but evil could come from associating with their kind. My mother would patiently explain to me the dangers posed by these nefarious creatures, and my father would pistol whip me to within inches of my life whenever I, in my youthful exuberance, would stray too close to one of the award-winning mystery novelists who haunted the neighborhood taprooms, haberdasheries and houses of ill repute.

Later, when I was nearing the end of my ninth year, a pack of man-eating wolves burst into my home and consumed my parents. Upset, I inquired of the wolves why they would do such an awful thing. The oldest wolf replied with the disinterested resignation of an individual who had been asked the same question far too many times. “We’re man-eating wolves. It’s what we do. We eat men.” I then inquired as to why they weren’t eating me. The wolf sighed as he explained that while they didn’t subscribe to a gender specific definition of the word men, they did subscribe to an age specific definition. I was simply too young.

The wolf then suggested that I ask something not having to do with the consumption of my parents, just to take my mind off of things. That seemed like a reasonable enough idea, so I asked the wolf pack for a little help with my arithmetic homework.

“No!” the wolf barked. “You have us confused with the lions from Richard Brautigan’s novel In Watermelon Sugar. We’re wolves, damn it. We don’t do math. Ask us something else.”

Frustrated, I told them that my parents had always taught me to stay away from award-winning mystery novelists and asked if this was really such good advice. Recently consumed, my parents were in no position to punish me for ignoring their edicts. The lead wolf replied, “They may have had a point. Just to be palatable, award-winning mystery novelists require an intensive slow cooking method, known only by a few syphilitic trolls and some character named Snuzy. Yeah kid, stay the hell away. It ain’t worth it.”

So there you have it. This whole sordid affair with the busted-up birds and the besmirched moose never would have happened, had I had just learned my lessons as a child. Don’t let this happen to you.