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| Um, that's disgusting, Al. |
I’m living in my own personal Alfred Hitchcock film.
It’s The Birds, 2012 edition: The Bird Keeps Sh*tting on my Car.
Below is a photo of the Swagga Wagon ONE DAY after I had it
washed.
Does the offending bird not realize how much pride I got in
my ride?
I hate birds.
Well . . . hate is a strong word.
Which is WHY I used it to describe how I feel about the avian
species. They’re fine to look at
when they’re up in the sky, and I periodically enjoy listening to their
tweet-tweeting as the harbingers of spring.
But that’s where I draw the line.
I will never have one in my home.
They stink, they squawk, and they sh*t all over the
newspaper and then expect you to clean up after them.
No thank you.
(I feel similarly about fish, and you can read about how I explained my
feelings to Medium
here.)
About a week ago, I was out on the back deck with Small, who
was playing in his sand box. I
kept hearing a thumping noise and realized that a bird was flying into the
window of my neighbor’s back door.
Repeatedly. Because the
first time didn’t work, so let’s try it again. And again!
Maybe THIS time! THIS time?
Whatevs, I thought.
Just another character flaw to add to my list of reasons I hate birds.
But then he moved over to my window. The next day, as I was sitting in my
family room watching a week-old Desperate Housewives reading the Wall Street
Journal during nap time, I was startled by a flying object that pounded into my
window. Repeatedly. Because the first time didn’t work, so
let’s try it again. . . . . you get the picture.
Now he has moved on to shinier pastures. He has discovered my motor
vehicle. He keeps pooping all over
my car. I heard scratching the
other day while the boys were playing in the driveway, and found my little
friend perched on top of my side mirror – which was apparently the perfect
angle for which to empty the contents of his little bird stomach with such force that it became lodged in the crevices of my mirror. He is also partial to loitering at the base
of the windshield so that when I use the wipers, I am presented with a rainbow
of bird sh*t.
To top it off, he seems to be having some gastro-intestinal issues. Perhaps it's the bird flu. He delights in evacuating his bowels and then using his scratchy little claws to smear it all over the driver's side. It's like he knows that's the side on which I enter the vehicle. I'm telling you . . . for a creature with a brain the size of a grain of rice, he's proficient at playing mind games with me.
I told Hubby I am going to set up camp and shoot it with a
water pistol, except all I keep thinking about is that line from To Kill a
Mockingbird. Atticus tells Scout,
“Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit ‘em. But remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.” Miss Maudie later explains, “Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music
for us to enjoy . . . but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin
to kill a mockingbird.”
Well guess what,
Atticus. This bird doesn’t do one
thing but sh*t all over my car and then get all scarce and stealth-like when
it’s time to get yer wallet out at the car wash.
So if you need me,
I’ll be sitting in a lawn chair next to my Swagga Wagon with a fully loaded
water pistol.
