The Portrait of a Dodo as an Exemplary Member of Society

So It Begins

It was in the year of our Lord MCDDDXXXIV that Sir Reginald Godfrey, an aging yet dignified raphus cucullatus, belonging to none other than the order columbiformus, (that is, in more vulgar terms, a dodo) stood at his vanity mirror observing how the hand of time had crept upon him in his twilight years and beruffled his feathers, once sleek and downy, with a tinge of charcoal. It was not to be lamented, this, for there was no shame in growing past his prime, and the decrepit often accrue a larger measure of wisdom, of which, Sir Godfrey humbly flattered himself, he too possessed his fair dose.

It was while this venerable fowl was thus engaged in contemplation of his image in the mirror, that his loyal and trustworthy manservant, who was not in fact a man, but a budgie, burst into the master chamber in an undignified flurry.

"Master Godfrey, Master Godfrey!" the periwinkle creature panted, his small tongue flickering past the hook of his beak. "It has begun! It has truly...begun!"

Here the manservant, who answered to Pimms, fell back in a fit onto the velvet cushions scattered willy-nilly about the opulent bed-chamber, and Sir Reginald was required to call the scullery maid to bring up a thimble of spiced wine for him to sip until he had recovered his fortitude.

"Tut-tut, my good Pimms," declared Sir Godfrey briskly when the servant was more or less coherent. Sir Godfrey treated the domestics not as his equals, but with the measure of kindness and deprecation which they deserved; for the master was a dodo of some means, and not inclined to powder anyone's arse.

"It is upon us!" Pimms shrieked, as he craned his neck to receive the invigorating beverage.

Sir Godfrey drew back the thimble hastily, fearing the small budgie would soon become too imbibed to explicate his ramblings. "And what exactly is upon us?"

"The end!"

"Of?"

"Us!"

"How..."

At this very instant the pair was interrupted by a pandemonium of squawks and metallic clanging, and the chief of police flew by the window in a small red wagon drawn by a flock of heaving Indian ring-necks. "Make way for the bobby!" was the general outcry, emanating from a mob which had rapidly gathered around a mound of feathers down on Bilberry Street. Hereupon the bobby, Master Galaphagus, leapt spryly from his wagon and landed amidst the crowd, swinging his night-stick this way and that until they had somewhat dispersed. He approached the sad mess of drab feathery that was tinged with what appeared to be crimson blood, and probably was.

Master Galaphagus tilted his head and appraised the scene with his one good eye. After the duration of three seconds he lifted thus his head and cried "Murder!" and began vigorously flapping and strutting in a sort of mourning dance that was not uncommon to the dodos of his time.

"Murder!" reiterated Pimms from the upstairs window, and gulping down the remnants of the thimble, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

"But how can this be?" Sir Godfrey murmured in awe, as he too peered at the writhing crowd below. "Who would ever commit such a heinous crime?"

"It ain't fer me to me say, if you please, sir," chimed the scullery maid. "But if you ask me,"

(Which Sir Godfrey had not)

"If you ask me, it was that godawful flaminger that lives down the road."

That godawful "flaminger" was a bit of a perplexity to the respectable portion of dodo society, for such an exotic organism had never yet entered into the undisturbed lanes of their humdrum lives. It was rumored that Sir Percival, taking a solitary walk in the park on a fine Sunday for the seemingly sole purpose of showing off his garishly pink rear-feathers, was in the possession of a monstrous inheritance, greater far than that of any lord or lady dodo. Sir Percival had relocated himself from god knows where into the most pretentious mansion on the outskirts of town, naught but a fortnight since. His comings and goings had remained a mystery to all, despite the finches keeping a keen eye on him, knowing damn well it was none of their fucking business.

"Martha," reprimanded Sir Godfrey, "it is not in good moral to judge another on the basis of being unfamiliar. For us dodos were once also strangers in a foreign land, until the just hand of the lord saw it fit to cause us to multiply in blasphemous numbers, so that many suspected a goodly excess of extramarital affairs."

"The finches have eyes in every trees," pronounced Martha stoutly. "And if my memory don't fail me, just this morning I heard 'un say that he'd seen Sir Percival scrambling down the wood path with a paring knife in his wing and the devil in his eyes."