Tuesday, April 03, 2007
I'm a chicken around birds
I came home for lunch last week, and was changing my shoes to go for a walk when a rustling sound stopped me in my tracks. Was someone going through the mail I had just brought in? (I tend to assume the worst since the weekend someone broke into our place when the Better Half was away and I was home asleep.)
Completely frozen, I listened and figured out with a great amount of relief and an equal amount of irritation that there was a bird in our apartment. We have a non functioning fireplace, and while we try to keep it blocked, i'm sure that's how the little bugger snuck in.
I'm not a big fan of birds. There are two birds I like. They belong to a friend of mine, and we've had lovely conversations through cage bars. I'm comfortable with that. No pecking, no flapping. This bird was clearly freaked out, flapping at windows and making awful thunking noises with his head and beak. I propped open the front door to let him out, and didn't get out of the way fast enough. As he flew at me, I fled out the door, one shoe in my hand, one on my foot... running serpentine down the walkway should he be right on my heels. I have an odd and very real fear of getting bats, bees or birds stuck in my hair (the bee actually happened!), and that motivated my exit from the apartment.
I went back inside and looked around. No bird. But I didn't trust him. I put on my other shoe and went for a walk. When I got back, I was armed with a fattening coffee drink, and called the BH at work about this bird thing. I really am not one of those wives who calls because... I missed my plane and don't know what to do/ the kids have dropped all of their legos through the porch floorboards and I can't get them out/ the toilet is clogged with a banana/ or there's a spider in the house. Those examples are all real phone calls I answered and redirected to appropriate spouses at my old job years ago. I remember each of these callers very clearly, and apparently joined their ranks last week. Steve's boss answered the phone, and even though I limited conversation to "Is Steve available?" he handed the phone over and said "Uh-oh". Did I sound that bad?
I said that I thought I let the bird out, but he should get home first or the bird and I would surely terrorize each other into some form of paralysis. He did get home before me, let the poor thing out, and for his pains got a pile of creosote, soot, and broken masonry dumped on his head when he checked the chimney flue. Lucky guy. Glad it wasn't me.
We are still scrubbing panic droppings off of things... my coat, our comforter, the window blinds, the floor, the curtains, the shirt I'd ironed for work. A little suprise every day really. A bird proofing site calls starlings "pest birds" and uses words like "muscular" and "bullies". Many thanks to them for helping me to rationalize my fear of something a tenth my size.