This book starts out innocently enough; it is the tale of young Eric and his beloved pet bird, Snow. A beautiful bird, Snow. Lovely plumage. All was right with the world: Eric fed her stale bread, Snow pooped on the porch. Until one day, when (as often was the case in the children's literature of the early seventies) cruel reality ruined all the fun. Enter cursed Thanatos:

No, he's not just resting, Eric. Snow is dead. It says so, right there under the two-page bird corpse. If you look close enough you can already see the maggots hatching in his eye! I'll bet the next page is all about the wonders of rigor mortis. My daughter calls this book "the one about the bird who didn't look both ways."

I hope this book doesn't end with Eric in his mid-forties stuffing dead prostitutes into 50-gallon drums.
Uh-oh. Even I can tell where this is going.

Yeah Eric, that coffin with your dead Grandpa in it will look great next to your Micronauts and your super Spirograph.