I wrote about the bird who wouldn’t let me relax in my hammock. He sat above me, just out of range of my squirt gun, and took target practice at me. On the other side of the house, his brothers have bombarded my car in a way that can be described only as an organized mob hit.
Well, there are a couple of updates to the story.
Since my wife’s son has moved over to Springfield for the summer, we’re back down to two cars, so I started parking my car in the garage again. I came home late one day last week and opened the garage door to find a bird — possibly “the” bird — flying around in the garage.
Is it not enough to sit in the tree that shades our drive and paint my car? Now you have to take up residency inside? This cannot be a fluke. It seems more like an act of war, perhaps orchestrated by some disgruntled public official who has felt the sharp point of my pen.
Anyway, the tables turned over the weekend when a storm front moved in bringing torrential rain and damaging wind. When it was over, I counted six bird nests on the ground underneath our big cedar tree, three broken eggs and one dead bird.
I don’t feel good about this, and I just want the bird community to know that I didn’t do it. I wasn’t even home at the time.
I can’t say I’m unhappy that the tree squatters have been evicted — I actually got in some hammock time on Memorial Day with relative peace and quiet. But I wouldn’t go so far as to destroy their homes. If I was going to do that, I would have taken down the one on the downspout under the eave by the garage where the tenant startles the bejeezus out of me every time I go outside.
I do want to point out, however, in case any of the birds are reading this, that several years ago, I built a perfectly fine birdhouse, which sits on a maple tree branch in our back yard, and not one of you ingrates has bothered to build a home there.
We also provide a birdbath, which we sometimes remember to put water in, so you can wash yourselves, take a drink, or whatever birds do in birdbaths. Point is, we have been nice to you birds, and what do we get in return? A Jackson Pollock paint job on the hood of my car and a deuce-drenched hammock.
While we’re at it, my feathered friends, I think 5 a.m. is a little early to serenade outside my bedroom window. Could we move that up to, say, 7 a.m.? And maybe lower it an octave?
One more thing. As inviting as our living room is to you, that big, invisible wall between our space and your space is called a picture window. None of you neighborhood birds are big enough to fly through it, so, if you would quit dive-bombing it, I’d appreciate it. Just give me a little quiet time and a little hammock space, and you can have all the worms you can eat out of the yard. Deal?
© Copyright 2019 by David Porter, who can be reached at email@example.com. I feel bad for the birds who lost their homes; I wonder if their insurance rates will go up.