March 2nd, 2011, 11am: He’s standing in the tub, motionless, alone. He might be dead. I blow on him. He is rigid. He’s rigid, like rigor mortis has set in. Again, I huff on him from the back of my throat where the warm, moist, breath resides. One of his hind legs moves! Or did it? There it goes again! His left hind leg is moving up and down. There, another leg is moving. Enough legs activate to flip him onto his back.

He can’t right himself. His forearms rub together and over his compound eyes in that weird way that imitates feline grooming . He can’t right himself. His legs flail about, his wings shudder. He can’t right himself. I flip him over with a pencil. He is back on his feet. He flips over again. I flip him back again. I huff on him again. I lose interest.

March 2nd, 2011, 11pm: He’s still on his feet, in the tub, motionless, alone. I huff on him. Nada. I poke him with the pencil. Nada. I determine to crush him and flush him. I take a square of tp. I reach into the tub. When I squeeze him, he POPS.