I was so excited this morning, because when I stepped on the scale I was down a pound; but my buzz was quickly killed by a bird flying into my den when I opened the door to my garage. Not wanting to come home to a house full of bird poop, I spent much, much precious morning time trying to coax the little shit to fly outside.
If you've never tried to get a bird to go where you want it to go, let me try to explain what that is like. You've heard the term "herding cats?" Piece of cake by comparison. Birds are wiley, spastic creatures with limitless energy and zero sense of direction.
At one point, it hid behind my trophy case, where my husband's pool cue fell on it. Let me just add here that until this happened, I did not know that birds could scream. I thought I had killed it, and I felt horrible, horrible, REALLY HORRIBLE. All I had wanted was for it to get the frack out of my house and be free! Why did you have to go and get yourself killed, you little dummy?
Then, I saw its little beak open and close. Great. The poor thing was not dead; just badly injured and probably dying. Now I feel even WORSE, because I can't kill it (ew ew eeeeew) to put it out of its misery; but I can't just let it suffer endlessly until it dies...
So, I get a plastic bag to drape over it so I can sweep it out of the house. Maybe a cat will come and kill it quickly so it doesn't suffer so much. That will make a nice meal for some random cat. A nice little circle-of-life bonus that I can maybe convince myself to feel okay about. I drape the bag over it, and guess what? The little f@cker flies over to the other corner of the room! He is okay, he was just stunned! Yay! I'm not a birdkiller!
Crap. I still have a bird in my den.
By this time, I have to get my butt out the door, or Julia will be late for school. I'm already going to be 30 minutes late for work.
So, I'll be coming home to a den full of bird poop. Good times, good times.