Sarah Morgan
If only I could.
There’s this sweet little song I knew when I was little called “Alouette” – which, I just realize, has the exact same melody as “Frere Jacques.” The funny thing is, though, translated to English, it’s really a bit creepy. The first two lines translate roughly as, “Pretty little birdie, I’m gonna pluck you.”
However, this is entirely appropriate at the moment. Because I? Have a bird problem.
I also have an ant problem, a teeny little centipede problem, and a spider problem, but I can get murderous toxic sprays of death for those. And I plan to. Shortly.
However. The birds.
There are two of them. One is small and brown, of undetermined breed, but ridiculously determined mind. This bird, last year, lived in a nest in the fixture around the light over the front door. When I started housesitting in the fall, I replaced the light, and in so doing, cleared out the nest. A few weeks ago, the bird returned from wherever it is birds go in the winter – Do they really go south? Do they hang out with all the pretty tropical birds? Don’t they feel all frumpy and pudgy? I digress – and, upon returning, wanted back in this prime location. You wouldn’t think he’d want to be there, since I leave the light on all the time, but it’s out of the rain and the wind, way up high, and apparently he seems to like it, because by the time I noticed, there was a full-on nest in there. So I cleared him (her?) out again. Completely. Took the nest and moved it to a nearby tree very carefully.
And the bird? Took the nest, piece by piece, and rapidly rebuilt it back in the light fixture.
I’m very frustrated. I have bird poop all over the front porch. I have a nasty mess sprouting out of the light fixture. And I am such a sucker that I know I’m going to leave the nest alone until after springtime so the bird can have his (her?) baby birds.
But come summer, that bird is moving house.
The second problem is a cardinal. A very, very, very dumb cardinal. Small, bright red, rather chubby, very dumb. Every morning, beginning about 7:00, he (this time I know it’s a he, because he’s red, and the she cardinals are brown) starts bashing up against the windows. All the windows. All over the house. Because he sees his reflection. And I don’t know, I guess he wants to fight it. Or make friends. Or knock it senseless. Or drive me completely out of my mind.
Every morning, while I’m getting ready for work:
Bonk. Long pause. Bonk. Pause. Bonk. Very long pause. (Different area of the house.) Bonk. Pause. Bonk.
Which will last longer, his beak or the windows? O, the dramatic tension.
