We were at nature’s mercy yesterday, and I’m not talking about the tornado activity that swirled through the midwest. I’m talking about birds, ala Alfred Hitchcock.
Yesterday I was out getting an oil change and inspection, and didn’t have my insurance card with me. I called husband to bring it to me. When he got there, he informed me there was a baby bird in residence in the middle of our driveway, and when he walked out to the car, he bent over to pick it up and move it. He was promptly dive-bombed by two very angry parent birds. He dove for cover and skinned his knee on the driveway.
This story made me laugh. It made Connor laugh. We laughed and laughed our asses off.
Arriving home a while later, I find that the baby bird is still smack in the middle of the driveway. I parked several feet away from it, and made it into the house without incident. But later when I went out on the front porch, I was promptly driven back inside. We were being held hostage in our house, by the angry birds.
This went on for a couple of hours, until we decided to take a stand and reclaim our house. Hubs had the genius idea to trick them by going out through the garage. Connor came along, and we all armed ourselves. Up the garage door went and there we stood, wielding deadly tennis rackets just like our mighty viking forefathers, who once wielded…something. Whatever vikings wielded, that’s what they wielded.
SURPRISE, the baby bird was no longer in the driveway. So Connor and I commenced to playing tennis in the driveway. Oddly, I kept hearing this cheap cheap sound. I finally noticed that baby troublemaker had hopped himself into the planter, under the bush in front of the house. So I was literally standing three feet from it while we played tennis.
This turned out to be an awesome exercise for Connor, because I used this time to work on his perseveration issues. He was stuck on the fact that the baby bird was there, and I reminded him to stay away because it will upset the mommy and daddy birds, who want to protect it. Then I distracted him by hitting the ball back and forth. We kept at it for about 20 minutes, and he did really well with switching gears and getting himself “unstuck” from the baby bird. And the other benefit was that we established our ultimate dominance over our driveway with our stealthy, ninja-like movements with the rackets.
It turns out that my feeling of superiority was not only delusional, but also short-lived. Later when I went out to the front porch, I found this:
Yep, little baby Mofo hopped his fuzzy ass right onto the walkway by the front porch. Take a look at that picture again. Look up there towards the top of the tree. See that? Yeah, that’s momma bird. She’s just waiting to peck someone’s eye out if they step off the porch.
So I did what any mature person would do. I stood on my front porch, yelling at the damn birds. “Come and get your goddamned kid and get it off my walkway! Listen you bastard birds, this is MY house, you better RECOGNIZE!!”
I don’t care much for the neighbors anyway.
As I stood on the porch, I heard the tell-tale cheap, cheap sound, but not from the bird on the walkway in front of me. I looked around, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t see this:
A SECOND baby bird…right ON my porch!
I’ve got to get the dog to the vet, the boy to school, and myself to work in the morning, all before 8am. So I’m not going to say that I stuck my foot out and punted baby jackass #2 right off the porch, into the grass below. Nope, not saying it. But I’ll say the porch is clear.
So, come 7am tomorrow, Connor and I will have to forge a trail down the walkway with our tennis rackets.
Hey, nature ain’t pretty all the time, people. Sometimes it’s kill or be killed.
And I’m not being taken out by a pair of birds. Not today.
And I can thank my viking ancestors for my warrior spirit.