A bird in the house is worse than two in the bush
It was a typical afternoon around the house – that is, until the bird pooped on my shoulder. I’ve heard tales of bird-bombings and have seen the result of loose fowl-bowels on cars, windows and patio furniture.
But understandably, I’ve never worried much about overhead game while sitting in my living room.
My mate and I had just returned from a day of recreating. We showered and were performing our household obligations. Ellen was sorting her dirty laundry – colors, whites and clothing to be brought to a hazardous waste site. I was cleaning the house. After a week of hosting my wife’s aberrant teen-age nephew, Warren, and his three filthy friends, our home looked like a refugee camp.
When I felt the not-so-smart-bomb hit my shoulder, I was incredulous. Knowing that there was no wildlife over head, my first thought was that the plaster on our ceiling was falling. Not being able to come up with any plausible explanation I approached my mate.
“Honey, does this look like bird poop?” I asked.
She looked as closely as she could without actually touching me and said, “That’s gross.”
I cleaned myself off with a paper towel and asked her, “We don’t have any birds living in this house do we?”
After thinking for a bit she answered, “Only the one that Warren brought home.”
After a small amount of interrogation she confessed that Warren had rescued a sparrow that had flown into our picture window.
The bird hit the glass and was stunned. Warren picked it up placed it in a shoebox in hopes of nursing it back to health. Being a teenager with the attention span of a trout, he disregarded his Hippocratic oath and left the bird under the bed in our
When I asked my bride if she thought the sparrow her relative brought into our home is the same one who just pooped on my shoulder, she admitted there was that possibility.
Upon further interrogation she confessed the event took place a few days before and no mention was made because all assumed that the bird had come to his senses and simply flew out of the house.
Once I knew what I was looking for, it took no time at all to find the winged house guest. The bird in question had found a perch on a high windowsill about 15 feet above the living room floor. Evidence of his digestive tract could be seen a few places beneath the sill.
I will confess my first thought was to dig out my BB gun.
As if reading my mind, Ellen asked, “You’re not going to kill it, are you?”
While sneaking my gun back into the closet I said, “Of course not.”
I will give credit to my bride by saying she did not hinder me by trying to help. It seems she enjoyed having the bird around. She did make me promise not to harm it. I formed a plan.
Since the bird was almost 15 feet out of reach and I had no ladder that height, I made do with what was available. I dug out my 12-foot avalanche probe – a collapsible pole used to search for buried victims – and taped a feather duster to the end.
I asked Ellen to come out of the laundry room with some unwashed clothing to net the creature. With my bird weapon at the ready, I lobbed a tennis ball at the perching chick, causing it to take flight.
As it circled in confusion, I – as gently as possible – bashed it out of the sky. The bird plummeted like G.W. Bush’s approval ratings and hit the couch, only to have my wife smother it gently with a pair of her soiled bicycle shorts.
I immediately picked it up and brought it outside. Once in the fresh air, it seemed to recover. I held it in my hand for a few minutes then gently placed it on the ground. It sat there a while and flew to a nearby tree.
It might be my imagination, but I think that bird has been hanging around our house for the last few days. Then again, I could be imagining this, but it seems to be enamored with my wife. It bursts into song whenever she approaches. I’ve noticed a fair amount of poop on my truck, while her vehicle is spotless.
I guess I’m a little hurt. It was I who was so careful not to injure it even after he soiled my shoulder. It seems to forget that I was the one who sat by its side as he recovered in the front yard. All my wife did was caress it in her bike shorts.
Because of that, he has a crush on my mate. I guess one thing that male fowl and male humans have in common is we’re both pigs S
Jeffrey Bergeron, under the alias of “Biff America” can be seen on RSN television, heard on KOA radio, and read in several mountain publications. He lives in Breckenridge.
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