Housebear

I was making dinner while Dorian napped in the other room. Suddenly, he began making distressed, angry sounds. He called my name repeatedly, so I ran back into the room. He was still lying asleep, with a bit of the blanket on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Adom! Adom!”

“I’m here, what?”

“There’s a pigeon on my face.”

“What?”

“Gettitoff.”

So I moved the blanket. He smiled and nuzzled his face into the pillow.

“Jari’s hugging me. Put him on defrost forty. Ten for every chicken, and we have five chickens.”
(Jari is a friend of mine--actually, the one that prompted me to make this blog--that Dorian met this weekend at a Dag event. Jari greeted Dorian with a bear hug and the phrase, "I want to live inside of your brain!")

"I'm going to wake up in seven minutes."

"Okay."

"What time is it?"

"Eight thirty-seven."

"Eight minutes."

"Ok."

"Always easiest to get up at the forty five. Ha-hah, still better at math than Jim."

“I need to talk to the boss.”

“About what?”

“Need to borrow his car.”

“What do you need his car for?”

“Bacon.”

“Is it raining?”

“No, I’m typing.”

“Don’t type rain.”

“I’m very tired. And hungry. Tired. Hungry. Tungry. Yeah, tungry.”

Our guinea pig is named Sir Robert Nicolas Housebear, the Windswept Crusader. As Dorian snored, Housebear started running about in his cage, clunking his water bottle. Dorian startled at the sound and opened his eyes.

Me: “It’s Housebear.”

Satisfied, he closed his eyes again. A moment later, Housebear clunked the bottle again.

Dorian: “Jeez, it sounds like he’s in the dryer…”

A few seconds passed, and he sat up, alarmed and glaring at me.

“He’s not in the dryer, is he? Why would you put him in the dryer?! Get him out of there!”

(Dorian would like me to amend that statement. Housebear is my guinea pig. Dorian's guinea pig would be eaten.)