JR and I came home from errands this morning to a strange kerfuffle happening in our pantry.
A kerfuffle of the feathery sort.
Yes. There was a BIRD in my HOUSE. A black, winged, gross bird who alternated between perching on the pineapple tucked away in the corner and flapping frantically into our windows with his death beak ready to kill me and my child.
(I have a thing about birds. I love them on pillows and curtains and bags. But they scare the bejeezus out of me in real life.)
Being the wonderfully calm and collected parent that I am, I hollered at JR to get upstairs and go into his room and play with his blocks, so help me God. Then I called my husband. My husband who was nestled all snug in his bird-free office, undoubtedly thinking to himself “Isn’t it awesome how if there were a bird in my house right now, I totally wouldn’t have to deal with it? My life is great!”
So we talked.
“So there’s a bird in the house.”
“A BIRD in the HOUSE. In the pantry.”
“How did it get in there?”
“I have no idea, but what do I do.”
“How big is it? Like a baby bird or a bird like as big as your head?”
“It’s probably half the size of my head, but it’s still bigger than any bird I would like to have in my house.”
“So what you’re saying is that you’d prefer to have no birds in your house?”
“Well, you’re going to have to open the windows and then swoop it out of there with the broom.
“Can’t I just open the door and wait for it to find its way out?”
“No, birds are dumb.”
“Ok, here I go. I’ll call you when it’s gone. Or when my eyes have been pecked out.”
(I wish I were making that conversation up. Oh how I wish I were, that my husband, upon hearing the distress in my voice, would have booked it home to help me deal with our wildlife situation, but alas, no.)
Because I am me, I immediately thought he was wrong about the front door thing, and I opened it up. But I grabbed the broom because I can follow some directions.
And then I just stood there. As the bird kept slamming his dumb head into our pantry windows, down the hall from the open front door.
I moved out on to the porch. With the broom. I stood there some more, hoping a kind passerby would see me and come to my rescue. A few folks did walk by but they didn’t help. Probably because I didn’t say anything to them. Apparently a haggard woman clutching a broom on her front porch doesn’t communicate “Excuse me, kind sir, would you be willing to come inside and help with a bird removal?”
Eventually I went back inside and did my best bird talk.
“Psssst. Bird! Cheep cheep! Tweet! Over here!”
He was unimpressed.
After about 15 minutes of this, I decided one of two things was going to happen 1) the bird was going to get brave and venture out into the rest of my house, forcing me to move away forever or 2) it was going to eventually kill itself slamming its aforementioned dumb head into the glass, and then I’d have to deal with a DEAD bird in my house. Ew.
So I did the only thing that made sense: I wrapped myself up in Ross’s Eagle Scout blanket. Because a knit blanket is impervious to a frightened bird’s beak.
With a deep breath and silent prayer, I went in. Moving faster than I ever thought possible, I got the window open and high-tailed it out of there. A few seconds later, the bird completed one more (and extra dramatic, in my opinion) lap around the pantry before flying out of the window.
And then I spent the next 15 minutes cleaning up the bird shit he left all over the counter, floors, and windows.
Happy Friday, everyone.