Every year, Senyah and I have a conversation something along these
lines:

Me: I took the parakeet out of the freezer.
S : What parakeet?
Me: The great big one wrapped in plastic netting.
S : You mean the turkey?
Me: Yeah, I took the parakeet out of the freezer. He was cold.
S : (seeing it's going to be "one of those" conversations) I
   would think so.
Me: Anyway, I didn't want him to catch cold, and it's about
   time we taught him to sing. He can't sing with chattering
   teeth.
S : Um.
Me: Not to mention a bad cough.
S : You realize that he has no head.
Me: Well, I was going to teach him to sing by whistling
   through the hole.
S : Or lungs.
Me: A mere technicality.

[later]

Me: Someone killed my parakeet.
S : Hummmm, hummm, humty hum...
Me: You killed my parakeet, didn't you? I was going to
   teach him to sing.
S : Just warming him up. He'll be fine in a few hours.

[later]

Me: I found my parakeet's mangled carcass in a plastic
   bag. How am I going to teach him to sing now?
S : (long suffering silence)
Me: Parakeet murderer!
S : Well he couldn't sing. He deserved to die.

Of course, this goes on for awhile until we both get tired of it
(grin), and we proclaim that "the parakeet" couldn't sing very well,
but he certainly had good taste.

Just pulled this year's turkey out of the oven. It was a beautiful
eleven pound miracle of the culinary- if not performing-arts. Yum.

Oh, did I ever mention that some of my strangeness has rubbed off on
Senyah (big, evil grin)?

Hugs and Purrs,
Mark