Nip and Tuck
Padraig woke to the very uncomfortable feeling of being stared at. He raised one gummy eyelid and found himself peering directly into the blackest pupil he had ever seen. His brain circled trying to find some purchase that would explain the odd phenomena, settling finally on the damn bird. He started to ease himself up only to be nipped in the brow, not hard, but enough to know he wasn't dreaming.
"Bloody hell," he spat as he slumped back to the ground and pressed his hand to his wounded part. He tilted his head so he could stare at the bird with his other eye. Its long neck was craned gracefully around in what looked strangely like a question mark, the gleaming eye still peering at him, he could have sworn, with mischievous glee. "Ye' thought that was funny did ye?
The bird turned its head, giving him the satisfaction of being stared down by its other stone-black eye. He scooted a bit out of range and sat up. He was rather surprised his head was not ringing, and other than the twinge on his brow and a tenderness in his nether regions, he did not feel all that worse for the wear. He would have thought that the prior day's exploits would have left more of a mark. He stood and brushed himself off a bit. "Ye ought to be kinder to the man who almost drowned gettin' ye'r kibble such as it is."
The swan looked at him, a long, quiet unsettling glare, then his neck lashed out and grabbed at his bootlace, tugging it loose and almost sending him to his rear. The bird's head bobbed up and down and a sort of low honk seemed to eminate from its throat. It was the first sound Padraig had hever heard him make. It startled him almost as much as the sudden attack on his shoe, 'til it occurred to him that the damn bird was actually laughing. He moved toward his bucket and reaching it dashed down toward the little inlet, whisking up a bit of water. He checked briefly to make sure there were no rocks or other debris in it, then he turned and hurled the water at the still chortling bird.
The swan was caught with his throat open as the slosh of water poured down on its head. It stopped, shook quickly and then looked at Padraig with a gleam in its eye. He watched in mesmerized horror as it slowly drew itself up from its long prone position and stood. It wobbled there, gaining its "feet" and then it began to stumble toward him, making that chortling noise again, He stepped back and re-loaded his bucket, then turned and watched as the bird made its way to him. It stopped within a foot, tilted its head with that quizzical gaze and then lunged for his bootlace again, giving it a hard tug. This time he did lose his balanceand found himself seated in the wet-spray of the inlet. He stuffed his hand in the bucket and threw a fistful of water at the bird as he scrambled to his knees. The bird circled and pulled at his shirttail. "So, ye want to play rough, do ye?" He swirled and dumped his bucket out on the bird, then gave him a pat on the head, and raced back for a refill. The two played the odd game of cat and mouse for a few more minutes before it was clear that the swan was tiring. Padraig made his way back up to his berth and sat. The bird followed and curled into his normal spot.
"I guess ye'r not that bad for a bird, though truth be told I won't be sharing this little adventure with the boyos down to the pub. I'll see to ye'r breakfast now." He made his way out the the ledge with a great deal of trepidation. "Lord, give me the strength to stay out o' the water and the skill to feed that bird; he's deservin' if I'm not. At least that's what I'm thinkin'," he muttered as he gripped the ledge high and swung out over the edge to dip the retriever in. It felt like something was pulling at the thing. Padraig felt his feet begin to shift and slide and then suddenly the pole was practically shoved back into his chest, hard enough to leave a bruise. "Well, so much for getting out with only a few high notes to be singin," he coughed, yet he was grateful to be on the ledge and to find he had enough seaweed to give the bird for the day.
He went back in and found his fiesty friend asleep. He rooted through the cooler and washed down the ice, then made a nest in the ground near the bird of ice and seaweed. "That will have to do, boyo," he smiled. He felt like giving the bird a pat, but decided it was best to let him sleep. Although he had yet to see him stretch a wing, he had seen more activity today than he had ever seen before. That had to be a good sign. The bird was on the mend.
He made his way out to the strand, to a mild clear day and took a deep breath, only wincing a little. Perhaps he would give Roary only a wee bit of griping for talking him into this fool's errand. He felt surprisingly right with the world after his morning with the bird. There were some things that were just worth doing, whether they made sense or not.
That thought in mind, he began his walk home, a whistle on his lips.
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