Owl Tales

Here's an excerpt from a piece I wrote about a guy and his pet. Although I'm all up for the leftfield, this is a little odd even for my standards:

I look at my owl, a long hard look. It is no use; I am going to have to iron him. I unpeg him and tuck him under my arm. Last night I’d left him out to drip dry but the wrinkles are still there.

His gaze is full of remorse, and rightly so. The previous evening, at our party, he was showing off as usual, and fell into the water, again. I had specifically warned him to be careful as I could see he was dancing too close to the slippery edge of the pool. He took no notice and as he skipped across the floor I saw him, almost in slow motion, begin to skitter and skid towards the water. With a small splash he toppled in, promptly sank, and then resurfaced, spluttering and flapping, water spraying everywhere, splattering the guests.

I shake my head and give a sigh. He sighs too. I unfold the silver board, fill up the iron with water and twist the dial to the highest setting. I lay him down on his stomach and stretch out his wing, while he peers over the edge of the board watching the floor with his small melancholic eyes. As I press the iron over the tips of his wing a large cloud of steam hisses from the metal. A warm damp smell rises as I follow the arc of his feathers with my hand. I think about nothing as I run the heated metal over his quills.