Must Be Spring

On Tuesday, after Gideon had finished his supper, it was such a nice day out that instead of wiping the crumbs off of him onto the floor, I opened up the sliding glass door and shook off all the bits of cracker and goo onto the deck. We weren’t out there for very long, but the door was open the whole time.   It’s cool enough not to worry about the heat and there aren’t many bugs flying about just yet, so no need to worry much about that open door. 

Back inside, we walked to the front door so that we could go get the mail.  We talked to the neighbors on our way to the mailbox and played in the front yard while we waited for Jud to come home.  And then something interrupted our picture perfect five o’clock. 

The flapping of wings.

Not the kind of flapping that helps a bird take flight gracefully, but the kind of frantic, deranged flapping of a bird trapped.  Where was he trapped? IN MY LIVING ROOM.

He must have flown in while we were shaking off crumbs and now he was stuck.  I picked up Gideon, rock still in his hand, unbeknownst to me, and hesitantly made my way back inside to the phone.  First call to my dad whom, I figured, could probably get here faster than Jud.  The call went something like “THERE IS A BIRD IN MY HOUSE!!  ACK!!  COME QUICKLY!!!”  Then I hung up and called Jud.  “WHERE ARE YOU? THERE IS A BIRD IN OUR HOUSE!!! ACK!! COME NOW!!!!” 

Jud was already on his way home and he, ever so gently, reminded me to “Stop Yelling! You’re going to freak that bird out.”  Which, of course, was much too late.  The bird was terrified and I was too.  Gideon, on the other hand thought it was great fun and waved enthusiastically at the hysterical creature who would make the world’s worst pet, especially because when this bird is upset, its bowels loosen and apparently one of it’s tiny sphincter muscles begins to spasm. 

My dad called back just then (then being about the time the bird was perched on my leather sofa, POOPING ITS FEAR OUT) to tell me to open the doors and put bread outside to entice the little birdy away.  I grabbed bread, tore giant pieces of it off and placed them on the back deck.  Just as I turned around the bird ran into the front glass door, head first, wings frantically attempting to push it’s body through said glass. 

Realizing that going toward the glass to open the door would lead to even greater pooping, I quickly ran to the garage and went through it to the front of the house in order to open the door.  But, since the bird didn’t realize that there was a large piece of glass between it and me, it was petrified at the site of me and my baby creeping toward it and flew toward the back of the house, smacking directly into the side of the sliding glass door that was closed.  

Dazed now and staggering around under my kitchen table, the bird collected it’s teeny tiny self and walked out the back door. 

The end.

 POOP!

 

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  1. i can totally see that happening to me…and i would’ve had the exact same reaction:)

    • Kat
    • April 26th, 2008

    Carole, you would’ve pooped on the couch and run into the glass door? Tsk tsk. I thought more of you than that.

    • Rebecca
    • April 27th, 2008

    Yeah, something similar happened to me once. Except it turned out to be a bat. The result would have been funny if I had stuck around to watch. While I was looking at my extremely white face in the mirror while hiding out in my parent’s closet, my dad was swinging at the intruder with a baby doll. Of course this was inadequate and not long after mom had gotten him a broom the bat was dead. I think it traumatized us all. That didn’t stop dad from teasing sister Sarah and I with the dead body of the bat on the end of the broom. yeah. I guess we had it good though – the bat didn’t poop anywhere.

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