I don’t love spring. Oh, I appreciate all the greenery and the warmer weather but I hate, hate, hate the bugs. The punkies keep me indoors until the mosquitos come out and the mosquitos keep me indoors until — well — summer.
This brings me around to something else spring brings — birds. I’m not a fan. Now before you start throwing rocks at my house you need to hear me out. I don’t like being dive bombed, pooped on, or woken up at 5:30 a.m. to listen to them carrying on because they are glad to be alive — especially since I’d be gladder to just get another hour of sleep. Maybe I’ll set my alarm for 4:30 a.m., stick my head out the window and start singing to them to show them what it feels like.
Last week I noticed globs of mud on my front porch. Something in the back of my head was trying to tell the front of my head what this meant but I think the front of my head had headphones on. All I could think of at the moment was mud bees but there weren’t any signs of them. The next day I went out and there were more chunks of mud on my white rocking chair so I investigated like I was getting paid for it. There was mud spattered absolutely everywhere, from floor to ceiling. That’s when I saw it.
You might not believe this because I hardly believe it myself but a bird had been building a nest on one of my porch lights. My lights come to very sharp points so either the bird was a new age architect or an idiot. I declared it unsafe to dwell in, grabbed the broom and did my best to knock down the filthy concoction.
Less than two hours later I went out to get the mail and dang it all, the bird had started building it again.
I knocked it down again.
We could have played that game all day but I had better things to do so I washed the light and then put bags over both of them. Take that, bird.
The next day I wiped the smug look off my face when I spotted globs of mud on my other white furniture. I looked up and saw that this entrepreneur idiot of a bird, who had possibly gotten into some bad mushrooms, was now trying to build a nest on three inches of ledge that jutted out no more than one inch. I headed down cellar to the scrap wood bin and found the right sized piece to fill that space.
I then turned toward the bush the bird was presently living in and yelled “No means no! You can’t live here.”
Before you turn me into the SPCA or the Audubon Society or whatever, you need to know that I did feel guilty. So guilty that I borrowed a birdhouse and stuck it in the tree. This sad attempt at an apology went unappreciated and I haven’t seen hide nor hair (nor mud) of the bird or her babies since.
I do like looking at birds from a distance, or pictures of them on the internet. I’m often blown away by how pretty some of them are, but they have beaks and those beaks can do real damage — which you’d know if you ever watched the movie “The Birds” by Alfred Hitchcock. Apparently I watched it when I was too young and impressionable.
At least I’m not as bad as my granddaughter Cecelia. She, come to find out, is afraid of butterflies. (Suddenly I don’t seem so evil, do I?)
Her parents found out the hard way when they took her to a butterfly room. One landed on her. It did not go well.