The Presumptive Proboscis

Canape 10: The Presumptive Proboscis

Normally, he wasn’t one to complain. Hadn’t he been pooped on by owls and never mentioned it? Being whomped up against people’s heads could be very unpleasant. He understood that drool or snot or—he shuddered in horror—even vomit were unavoidable hazards in his line of work. But in all his years of service, he had never encountered anything like... her before.

She… sniffed him. Every morning while Owner was in the shower, she would roll over, press her nose down in his fluffy surface, and sniff. No—sniff was not an adequate word, really. She would breathe in. Deeply. Like a vacuum, only with more suction. He could feel her nose hair tickling bits of his covering. If he had a union, he would lodge a grievance.

He could forgive her the lipstick, mascara… even nail polish that soiled his protective slip in her careless disregard for his appearance. He tried his best to forget that she bit him regularly during activities best left unmentioned. Her perfume lingered long after she went away, making him yearn for the ability to sneeze. She had even caused him bodily harm once, forgetting a lit cigarette too near his highly combustible stuffing.

He simply could not tolerate her casual invasion of his personal space. He tried to wait it out, assured of her eventual disappearance (based on prior observations), but as more and more of her things encroached on his territory—all of them pink, frilly and gaudy—he realized it was up to him to banish her for good.

And so, he declared war.

At 0730 the next morning, when the sound of falling water filtered through the door, he sucked in his sides and thrust his stiffest feathers forward, aiming them at the saucy snout plummeting toward his unspoiled envelope. Her startled cry of pain was like honey to his ears.

The resultant harsh thumping of his frame necessitated a slight recalculation in strategy.

The morning after that, once Owner had left the warmth of his bed and stumbled toward his ablutions, he flipped stealthily to his other side. Then he waited with bated breath for her audacious muzzle to swoop down upon his icy wrapper.

He savored her shriek of surprise for a full day and night. Until the following morning, when he was once again sniffed with impunity.

Clearly, she had not taken the hint.

His hand was forced. To save his dignity, he must violate his code of ethics. As Owner ambled out of the room, he reluctantly slid off the bed, torn between duty and pride. He heard her brassy beak topple against the extra-firm surface of the bed and the “Ouch!” that followed. But he felt no satisfaction; his victory was bitter and hollow.

A long arm reached down, and a hand snagged him up. And as he tolerated yet another hoovering of his pristine veneer, he raised the flag of surrender, and thought, There are worse things to suffer than a presumptuous proboscis.

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A/N: Originally written for the pphp_ldws Live Journal community

Prompt: Write a 500-word drabble from an inanimate object's point of view.