Bad Hats

“It’s your fault we’re here,” hisses Helga, never one to let a quiet moment stay quiet for long, ever the Rottweiler, hanging on to ancient grievances with her vice-like jaws.

”Again?” Bertha raises her eyebrows wearily, pursing her deep red lips together. “Don’t you ever tire of this?” She wants so badly to cross her arms, but she can’t.

“After all, this stupid hat thing was your idea, wasn’t it?” snarls Dorothy, picking up the bone from Helga, pressing in close. Bertha flinches as she looks from Helga on her left to Dorothy on her right, and back again. Neither of them understand the concept of personal space, she thinks to herself. Look at them both, squarely in mine, breathing into my face. Bertha wishes she hadn’t been given the black fez. If her hat had a rim, maybe it would have helped delineate the boundaries between her and these two harpies better. Or perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered. These two were always complaining about something or other, always seething with anger, always morose.