“Come look at this bird,” I said. Gene obligingly came over to the window. “Look how little and fat he is,” I said.
“He is very little and fat.”
“I love fat little animals. Look how happy he is on his branch. He’s giving himself a good all-over shaking and feather-fluffing.”
“That’s true.”
“Do you know why he’s doing that?” I asked, leaning back into Gene affectionately.
“Is it because he’s so little and fat and happy?” Gene guessed.
“No,” I said. “It’s because he has mites.”