Day 16

Finally! Bathos arrived! Frankly, I did not know that ladies could spew such impressive epithets, but upon seeing my captor, they erupted from Bathos' mouth like ash from Mount Etna. After explaining to Mr. Kenn how she found me (a tale which went on a tad too long, if truth be told), she plucked me from Lawn Ornament Hell, secured me beneath her arm and took me to her automobile which was idling in the driveway. Mr. Kenn followed her, bellowing that he deserved some type of remuneration for the bird (meaning me). As Bathos put the car into reverse, she answered that if she had eleven fingers, she'd gladly give him one, and with that, she drove off. I'm not sure what she meant, but in my mirror I could see Mr. Kenn shaking his fist at our departure.

We sat together in silence for many, many miles. On several occasions I tried to initiate a discussion of recent events, as I thought the journey might pass more quickly with some diversion, but Bathos simply ignored me. I knew that she was angry with me for attempting to flee, and so I stifled my good natured proclivity to prattle on about, well, anything. At one point we passed Michael Phelps' practice facility, but I dared not ask if we could stop for an autograph. Bathos was in too foul of a mood.

We will arrive home tomorrow. In the only instance on this journey that Bathos has deigned to speak to me, she assured me that she had devised a foolproof method to keep me in front of her home. As she was already perturbed, I thought it best not to point out that I am anything but a fool. Instead, I quietly welcomed her challenge, for my quest to find my flock shall never be thwarted.

Until tomorrow, I remain,

Ramon the Flamingo

Day 15

Waiting for Bathos to arrive, if indeed she is coming at all, has been near agony. I have not been fed a morsel. I am cold and dejected and alone, but for that poor excuse for a gnome. Although he has yet to speak, I have seen him roll his eyes back to gaze at me. I assume he is admiring the hue of my lovely plumage, but with gnomes one can never be sure.

And so today my mind is racked with unanswered questions:

Has Bathos discovered my location? Will Miss Kitty attempt to attack me again? Will Mr. Kenn remember my tea? Will I ever reunite with my beloved Nancy? And what about Naomi?

I must believe that the answers to these and other questions will emerge in due course.

Loyally yours, I still remain,

Ramon the Flamingo

MEANWHILE, BACK AT BATHOS' HOUSE, THINGS ARE HEATING UP:

Day 14

Oh, the indignity of it all. Never in my worst nightmares did I imagine that my life would end in Lawn Ornament Hell, yet here I stand flanked by a dead rhododendron and a chipped amphibian. A woefully out-of-date Christmas banner slaps me in the face with each howling wind gust accompanied by the nettlesome whine of a chartreuse whirl-a-gig. (Don't these people know that bearing white snowmen after February first constitutes the most heinous of house fashion faux pas?) But perhaps the greatest insult of all is the pathetic excuse for a garden gnome next to which I am forced to perch. Is it the proud gnome of Amelie fame who carries a French cinema pedigree? No. Is it a frightening garden gnome of Harry Potter fame whose utter ugliness evokes admiration and awe from every onlooker? Again, no. Rather, I have been forced to gaze down upon a poor excuse for an ornament that still bears the name "Wal-mart" upon its tag. Fortunately, he has not yet attempted to initiate conversation with me.

And yet, in the heart of my deepest dark despair, a single ray of hope has managed to shine through. Late last night, I was awakened by a telephone ring. I accidentally heard Mr. Kenn yell, "Don't bother to come here, lady. It's mine now." Could he have been speaking with Bathos? Did she miraculously seek me out? Is she coming to save me so that once again I will be able to continue my quest?

I know not the answers to those questions, but instead will have to wait patiently for events to unfold. In the meantime, I find comfort in the sage and uplifting words of Chumbawamba:

"I get knocked down. But I get up again. You're never going to keep me down."

As always, I remain,

Ramon the Flamingo

Day 13

Human Beings are one of the most self-absorbed species on this planet, and I state this with all due respect. They are ignorant of the natural hierarchy of living beings unless, of course, said living being directly affects the human. The explanation for this fact is simple and direct: humans have no predators, and thus are completely oblivious to the dangers that lurk about other living species every single day.

Why am I waxing on about predation? Because in order to understand the utter depth of my worst fears over the past twelve hours, you need to know and accept this one fact: the Felus catus is the mortal enemy of the Phoenicopterus ruber. This relationship has been true since the beginning of time. Ancient ancestors of the Felus were known to hunt my species as evidenced by cave drawings discovered recently in the cave of Lascaux, which drawings are reproduced below:

I tell you this so you can begin to understand the abject fear that gripped my chest when I heard Mr. Kenn utter these words upon entering his home:

"Miss Kitty! Where are you? Come and meet your new friend!"

Slinking out from behind a hideous harvest gold and avocado green plaid chaise that could only have been an Ethan Allen reject from the mid 1970's, Miss Kitty took one look at me and, I swear, she smiled. She licked her lips slowly and languorously, as if mind-torturing her intended prey was part of the fun of the hunt.

Miss Kitty, being a crafty and sly beast, pretended to welcome me to her home. She approached me on little cat paws, gently rubbing my feathers with her fur. She made small growling noises which Mr. Kenn called purring but I knew to be hunger growls.

You may be asking, rightly so, how is it that Ramon is such an expert on the relationship between cats and birds? I'll tell you. When I was researching my post doctoral thesis at the University of Chicago, I was asked by the American Bird Conservancy to consult on the writing of "Domestic Cat Predation On Birds and Other Wildlife," an important, if not earth shattering, oeuvre. Although I reproduce the citation here ( http://www.abcbirds.org/abcprograms/policy/cats/materials/predation.pdf), you need only to understand this immutable fact: Cats Kill Birds.

In the instant that Mr. Kenn turned his back, Miss Kitty took the opportunity to attack. Fortunately, her first strike only grazed my beak, which thankfully is as hard as granite due to my fastidious grooming habits. However, before she could complete her second strike, Mr. Kenn turned back around and said to me, "Well, Mr. Flamingo, would ya like to see your new home?"

(I assumed he was talking to me even though he addressed me improperly.) Without waiting for my response, he picked me up and escorted me out the front door.

My friends, you will have to wait until tomorrow to read the rest of this saga, for after today's travails, I am physically and emotionally spent. I will tell you this, though: Miss Kitty, evidently, is an indoor cat, and so, at least for tonight, I will remain,

Ramon the Flamingo

Day 12

I have never enjoyed a vehicle excursion less than the one that began yesterday. Mr. Kenn took me from the antique store and put me into his automobile. The hideous bus-like vehicle (I believe Americans would call it a "mini-van") was filthy and reeked of wet animals and Canoe aftershave. To add insult to injury, he placed me on the rear seat when I much prefer the front.

We drove for what seemed like hours. When at last we stopped for a respite, Mr. Kenn amused himself by posing me like a mannequin in front of a billboard declaring our location. Reading the signage left me horrified. We had left my flock's home and entered the State of Wisconsin! The State of Disaster would be more accurate. How will anyone find me now?

Rather than return to the vehicle, Mr. Kenn took me inside the visitor center. As we approached the information desk, I realized that this was my opportunity for salvation. Certainly the information officer would see that I was being taken across state lines against my will once he heard me scream out. Unfortunately, I was dumbfounded, indeed rendered completely mute, when I heard the exchange of words between the two men.

"Where," Mr. Kenn asked the officer, "is Mars?" I expected the officer to burst into laughter at the lunacy of the question, but instead, to my utter disbelief, he offered directions. Cretins! I was surrounded by cretins! To his credit, Mr. Kenn politely thanked the officer before taking us back to the vehicle and setting out on the highway.

Fifteen minutes later, we exited the highway again, this time stopping in front of a giant medieval fortress. The enormous sign before it proclaimed we had arrived at "Mars Cheese Castle," and at once I understood my mistake. We were pausing for some nourishment! While cheese is not my first choice of degustation, I have been known on occasion to enjoy a firm slice of Cotswald or a creamy frommage Francaise. As it was nearly time for tea, I found myself actually looking forward to entering the castle.

To my massive disappointment, this establishment resembled no frommagerie I had ever visited before. To begin, this shoppe had only cheeses produced in Wisconsin: Wisconsin cheddar, Wisconsin beer cheese, Wisconsin string cheese... For variety, it offered Wisconsin summer sausages. Perhaps, though, the most disturbing items I discovered were bags of unidentifiable bits called "Cheese Curds." Believe me when I tell you that , although I usually maintain the intellectual inquisitiveness of an Eton scholar, I hope never to discover what actually is a Cheese Curd. In fact I can think of several rude remarks about the similarity between the Cheese Curd and a certain bodily function, but propriety prevents me from doing so. I am fairly certain, though, that a lovely brie will not be in my future.

And so I remain, a very hungry

Ramon the Flamingo

Day 11

Last night, exhausted from the Super Bowl festivities (and, perhaps, from just a small overabundance of a robust local ale), I fell into a deep and peaceful sleep on Marcelline's davenport. I was in the midst of a lovely dream about Nancy and a romantic dinner we shared at The Four Seasons when Marcelline roused me to start the day. She wanted to get an early start searching for my flock.

Marcelline recalled seeing a large flock of flamingos along the shores of Lake Michigan about fifteen kilometers north of the City. Although the day was frigid, I was warmed by the notion of reuniting with my dear friends. As we approached the village along the lake where Marcelline had seen the flock, I spotted a storefront that made my heart flutter! An antique store!

My friends, meandering aimlessly through a fine antique store is one of life's simple pleasures. One never knows what bauble or small treasure one might find. I asked Marcelline if she would mind making a small detour so we could visit the shop, and she kindly acquiesced. In fact, because the air was so terribly chilly, she allowed me to exit her vehicle at the shop entrance while she sought out a suitable parking space.

Marcelline must have had a difficult time finding a parking space because she was gone for a terribly long time. As my leg was weary, I found a cushy chaise upon which to rest close to a charming selection of antique lawn ornaments. Just then, a customer arrived (I'll call him "Mr. Kenn") who was seeking the perfect accoutrement for his summer lake home. Miss Fern, the shop proprietress, directed him toward the section of the shop in which I was resting. Mr. Kenn exclaimed, "A pink flamingo! How perfect!" I looked around hoping to spot another of my species when I realized that he was referring to me. Mr. Kenn then did the unthinkable: he picked me up, took me to the counter, and purchased me! As if I were a common chattel or decoration! And not only did I suffer the humiliation of being bought, but he actually bargained for me. Am I not worth the three dollars that Miss Fern the proprietress requested? Evidently not, for Mr. Kenn paid her two dollars and fifty cents, unceremoniously plopped me into a satchel, and took me away.

My friends, I have no idea to what miserable location I am being taken. I can only be thankful that the salmon colored satchel complements my winter plumage. And if you should see Bathos, please tell her that at this juncture I reluctantly require her assistance. Her haste would be greatly appreciated.

Until tomorrow, I remain,

Ramon the Flamingo

Day 10

My goodness, I am having a lovely day. Marcelline surprised me with a delicious breakfast of tea and scones, followed by Scottish smoked salmon and creme fraiche. Needless to say, I began the day in culinary heaven.

I have spent the past few hours lounging on the davenport, perusing the New York Times and waiting for Marcelline's guests to arrive. Evidently the "Super Bowl" is an American football game, not a meal, and quite the cause for celebration. Marcelline has invited me to stay with her for one more night and to join in the festivities. I happily accepted her kind invitation, as I have never been one to forgo a party.

Tomorrow Marcelline has offered to take me to several locations where I might find my flock. I do look forward to seeing my compadres, and of course, my beloved Nancy, but presently I will attempt to enjoy the moment. After all, I have never been one to wallow in my shrimp dip.

Until tomorrow, I remain,

Ramon the Flamingo