Helen: “Where were you?”
Hank: “Over on that pine tree… waiting. Like we discussed.”
Helen: “We did NOT discuss a pine tree. We discussed this branch. This exact branch. The branch with the good lighting and the unobstructed vole corridor.”
Hank: “Well, I saw you and flew right over, didn’t I?”
Helen: “After I circled the entire marsh like an air traffic controller with feathers!”
Hank: “No harm done.”
Helen: “You NEVER listen to me.”
Hank: “That’s not true.”
Helen: “Name one time you listened.”
Hank: “Last spring. You said, ‘Don’t dive at the fisherman.’ I only buzzed him gently.”
Helen: “That was an aggressive suggestion, Hank.”
Hank: “Are you mad?”
Helen: “Do I look mad?”
Hank: “I can’t tell—you’re facing Rhode Island and I’m facing Connecticut.”
Helen: “I’m not mad. I’m just… disappointed.”
Hank: “Oh boy. That’s worse than mad.”
Helen: “You’ll never change.”
Hank: “Look, I don’t want this turning into a screeching match. How about I grab you a rabbit? Big one. Organic. Free range. Locally sourced.”
Helen: long sigh that ruffles three feathers
Hank: “Or—hear me out—I could swoop down and steal that guy’s camera for laughs.”
Helen: “Absolutely not. That would be claws for concern.”
Hank: “Rabbit it is.”
Helen (glancing directly at the photographer):
“He thinks a rabbit fixes everything. Just wait until we’re back at the nest tonight. We’ll see who gets the final squawk.”
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