My T Rex

The neighborhood association objects to my T Rex, whom I have named "Annie."
I am informed, via certified letter, that Annie violates the section of the bylaws concerning over-sized pets.
"She is a bird, really," I assure them at the next monthly meeting. "Nothing but an extremely large--and flightless--parakeet."
My assembled neighbors address me, exuberantly, as a "stupid cunt" and a "clueless bitch."

Forgive them.
They have never seen Annie, hurt and bewildered by their hostility, holding out her stubby arms to me, her large eyes certain of my wisdom and my intercession on her behalf.
The neighbors continue with their monikers and complaints.
They say that she sets off their car alarms when she walks.
They say that when she goes to their miserable little gardens in order to relieve herself, that they must then rent industrial equipment to clean up the mess.
They even claim--lying through their capped teeth--that she eats their dogs and cats, when in fact those pets have simply fled such intolerable households as theirs must surely be.

I named her "Annie" after the beautiful song of that name by John Denver.
Within her beats the heart of a poet, as big as an 18-wheeler.
Within her burns the courage and the power of a thousand Roman legions.
At a word from me, the subdivision would be leveled, and so it is really at my pleasure that they remain here, alive, domiciled, and calling me unpleasant names.
"But," I say, stroking Annie's huge nose and feeling the lovely furnace of her devoted breathing, "one can only suffer fools for so long, isn't that right, Lambchop?"

As bonded as we are, I can easily tell that Annie agrees, and I turn toward our tormentors to report this accord,
this finding,
this harmony of opinion,
but evidently I have not given the members of the neighborhood association enough credit;
they, too, can interpret her expression,
and wisely,
drop all complaints.
____

for Ella's Edge. I love T Rex!