The Problem with Willard

There wasn’t one particular issue with Willard. That would have been much too easy to sort. Neither was there lots of individual issues. That too would have oversimplified the situation. No, much as it pains me to admit it, him being my brother and all, but Willard himself was the problem. Where most spoke, Willard chirped. Where you and I had houses, Willard had a tree. He refused to leave it squawking as much in his birdlike way, pooping on the cars below and eating berries off its branches. He was a strange one was Willard.

The problems came to a head when Willard’s tree got hit by lightning; it blew his fluffy feathers off. Naked from the waist up, his beak twisted round to face the wrong direction and his fake wings in tatters, Willard asked if he could move in with me. What could I say, he was my brother?

The rest of the town thought me mad, crackers, off my trolley. I was, and I wasn’t. Mostly not.

Willard, of course, refused to take a room and instead perched on my chimney pot. He made a nest out of twigs and an old deckchair and settled there quite content in his own weird way. Now and then, I’d throw him some seed, the odd worm, and a cracker or two and he was very grateful always eating the lot.

So why did I do it? Why? Let’s just say Christmas turkey was a whopper that year. There’s nothing like keeping it in the family.

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