So let me tell you this story, which unfortunately is quite true.

Maybe I should let Mango tell it. He was there, after all, and the story’s all about him.

Mango with a favorite treat, blueberries.

Me: Mango, tell us what happened last Wednesday, if you can.

Mango: Can I get some fruit first at least? (Chews. Eats .054% of the pineapple). Okay. It all started with the comforter.

Me: Tell us about the comforter.

Mango: It’s blue and red and cozy. But dangerous. I’ll never land on that comforter again.

Me: Why is that?

Mango: Why? WHY!? Because that comforter went swimming in the blue machine with the door on the front. The one right by the garage door.

Me: I know the machine well. (Grimaces at washing machine)

Mango: And now I do, too. (Spits remaining food at me.)

Me: I didn’t do it on purpose! It was an accident, and I feel awful.

Mango: As you should. SO, I fly to the comforter, and snuggle in. Apparently you’re not paying attention and shove it in the washing machine. So far, I’m fine. Just snuggled in. There’s some strange noises, and bam, things get wet. Including me.

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This is *not* after the washing machine incident. This was after a lovely warm shower on the lanai.

Mango: *squawk* I can’t believe you’re asking me to relive this trauma.

Me: No pressure.

Mango: Pressure? Of course there was pressure. The comforter gets wet, I get smooshed in tighter, and I’m soaked. Just soaked. Like a drowned rat, except I’m a beautiful bird.

Me: *Moans regretfully* I’m so glad I noticed right away that you weren’t on your cage or in Cole’s room. God was watching out for you. He kept pointing me back to the washing machine, which had been going for about 30 seconds at that point.

Mango: 30 seconds?! *Squawks. Flutters wings* Good thing someone was watching out for me.

Me: Tell us what happened next.

Mango: Suddenly there’s clicking sounds, and the lights turn back on, and I’m pulled out of the washing machine, but I’m still inside the comforter. I hear you and the blond child calling my name, and I manage to pop out and squeak.

This was also not after the awful washing machine incident. My mom felt so bad she was crying and couldn’t take a picture.

Me: You were soaked and blinking fast and trembling, poor little thing–

Mango: You bet I was! And then you smother me with a blanket again! And force me to get in my travel cage and go to that vet office where they poke and prod me. (Though I did enjoy the little heater thing that warmed me up.) I’ll pass on the drugs and poking though.

Me: You needed to get checked out. Thankfully you were okay, and now you need to take your antibiotic so you stay well.

Mango: But it’s gross. *Fluffs feathers*

Me: It is not. It tastes like cherry. You like cherries.

Mango: Real cherries, not fake medicine-tasting yuck cherries.

Me: So, you’re doing okay, and you’re fully recovered? Because I’m not fully recovered. It was traumatic for me, too. I feel so-SO bad.

Mango: I’m doing better. Mostly. A couple feathers are out of place but I can fix those. *Preens*

Me: And I’ll never close the washing machine without making sure I see where you are first.

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Mango: Indeed. I’m not sure I’ll ever stop smelling like laundry detergent.

Me: It does give you a fresh kind of smell…

Mango: I already smelled fresh! Now, are we done here? And where’s that walnut you promised me?

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