Pets

“No,” says Mr Boxe.

“But they’re so cute!” says Mr Foxe.

“No,” says Mr Boxe.

“They followed me home,” says Mr Foxe.

“No,” says Mr Boxe.

“They look housebroken,” says Mr Foxe.

“No,” says Mr Boxe.

“We can call them Socrates and Aristotle,” says Mr Foxe.

“No,” says Mr Boxe.

“We can call them Dickens and Thackeray,” says Mr Foxe.

“No,” says Mr Boxe.

“Damon and Pythias?”

“No.”

“Peepee and Cocky?”

“NO.”

“You are being very mean,” says Mr Foxe.

“Have you considered,” says Mr Boxe, “ the implications of our having birds as pets when our landlord is a bird? And our book-keeper? And our chief seamstress?”

“You mustn’t overthink this,” says Mr Foxe.

“Put them back where you found them,” says Mr Boxe.

“The mother won’t take them back, now I’ve touched them,” says Mr Foxe.

Mr Boxe grunts.

“Scylla and Charybdis?” says Mr Foxe.

Mr Boxe weeps quietly onto the desk blotter.