My Nemesis

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I had told him a flat no, but he kept badgering me. My son and hubby however, were like minded, and on the day of Sergio’s eighteenth birthday, I found myself staring at the shivering, goose pimpled beastie in his arms.

“I’m going to hand-rear him mom, you won’t have to do a thing.” Yeah right, I thought, famous last words. I threw hubby a filthy look, his grin widened. But true to his words, Sergio took care of the beastie, preparing the mush that passed for his  baby food with great diligence. At night while we watched television, the beastie would squat on Sergio’s chest, a mass of itsy bitsy feathers, wrinkled, pimply skin and beady little eyes.

Time passed and the beastie flourished, the white bum fluff  morphed into grey feathers, his tail turned red and his eyes remained beady.  Sergio played around with regal sounding names like…

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