The Horrible Welcome Mat

My neighbour down the hall has a remarkably ugly welcome mat. I'm thinking about stealing it and replacing it with a better one. Next April Fool's, I'll do it, if I'm still living here and so is he. I might put a lantern and a dustbin there, too, give him a proper wee dooryard. That's what he gets for having a welcome mat in an apartment building. Fifteen yards of carpet between him and the elevator, and he needs a mat to wipe his feet on? Us rats think not.

I know it isn't nice to steal things, but you would too if you saw this mat. It's a dreadful old hairy thing, all brown and scruffy, with "WELCOME" printed over it in big block letters. If you ask me, it looks like a great, matted heaving of hairballs, all gathered up and sewn together. I'd jump over this thing to keep my shoes from getting dirty. It's an eyesore. It's an abomination. It's the worst. I bet it even smells, once you get up close and personal.

The neighbours with the welcome mat, I think they're also the ones with the bird. I hear that bird sometimes, peeping away in the mornings. "Rude Hoot, you noisy thing," I mumble, stirring in my sleep. "Rude Hoot, how is it that I hear you from beyond the grave?" Rude Hoot was my cockatiel, brought home one afternoon, in a moment of madness. For the next year or so, I was woken every morning, at first light, by an unholy chorus of wheeps and screams. I pretended to hate it, but I secretly enjoyed having such a demanding bird. It made my flat feel occupied.

But then, there came a morning with no squawky serenade: Rude Hoot had kicked the bucket. Turned out he was more than thirty years old. You can tell, with a domestic bird, by looking at the band on its leg. That number engraved on there, that's not just a serial number. It's the bird's date of birth. Poor Rude Hoot was older than I was.

Someone ought to tell the neighbour's bird about Rude Hoot. All that screeching, I'm sure that's what did him in. I bet he woke up one morning, considered the prospect of bringing in his eleven-thousandth dawn, and died of exhaustion. I can just see it now: he's opening his beak! He's tilting his head back! He's puffing his chest out to sing! But, no--what's this? Hesitation? Ennui? He's drooping. He's flagging. His little feet, they're loosening on the perch.

"Lorito allargò l'ali,
Lorito il becco aprì,
un poco di prezzemolo;
da Socrate morì!*"

--except without the poisoned parsley, of course.

Filthy, filthy packbawky, leaving me all alone like that. There weren't any rats that year. I can't remember why. It had something to do with landlords, I think, and exterminators, and too many double shifts at work. It was only Rude Hoot, that year. Well, Rude Hoot and wotzisname, that fellow I was living with. If I could see one or the other again, just once more, I'd pick Rude Hoot. That's how I know it wasn't true love: I was sorrier to lose the bird.

It's like I was saying, though: someone ought to warn Neighbour-Bird, over there. Too much hooting, it's not good for a bird. Moderation, Neighbour-Bird, moderation in all things. That's the ticket to a long and healthy life. This indiscriminate peeping might feel good for a while, but one day it'll start to seem more of an obligation than an ode to joy, and then where will you be? All dead and spraddle-winged in the bottom of your cage, that's where. Sprawled out with the husks and the bird-lime, and last week's paper. Oh, Neighbour-Bird, don't do it! Save yourself, while you still can!

I mean, come on, Neighbour-Bird--you've got to make it through the winter. April Fool's won't be the same without you. I expect to hear your outraged pawks mixed with theirs, when they open the door and find their welcome mat swiped. Ah! ah!--what if I left a ransom note, instead of another mat?

"Dear Sir,

For more than a year now, my eyes have been offended by the sight of your welcome mat. Every morning, I emerge, bleary-eyed, in hopes of mail, and every morning, I am greeted with that awful sight. Your welcome mat, sir, looks like something the cat coughed up. I've never seen anything so dreadful.

That said, I am not entirely without compassion. I understand the attachment some folks have to their things. Accordingly, I am leaving this ransom note. If you want to see your welcome mat again, please leave a pound of ground beef outside your door before five o'clock this evening. No police. No FBI. No looking out the peephole to see who comes for the meat. If you try to report me, your mat goes down the sewer.

(Either that, or wait till April 2, and I'll give the rotten thing back. Happy April Fool's.)

Affectionately,

--A Neighbour."

Well, Neighbour-Bird, do you like it? I like it. I like you, as well. I'll be listening for you.

* From Puccini's La Boh�me, act 1.