The Birds

It’s not like I’m a big evil animal hater like Cruella De Vil or something. I mean, a lot of people hate cats, right? That’s totally normal. And I do love myself some dogs but, unfortunately, my allergies don’t afford us a Snow White and all the woodland animals type closeness. I do own a fur coat but it was left to me by my mother who got it before fur became a fashion don’t. I never wear it out but sometimes I let my kids get in it and pretend to be a bear. That’s okay, right?

So anyhow, my point is just because I sort of like people a lot more than pets, doesn’t make me a bad person. I certainly would not wish any harm upon a poor little chipmunk or bunny or 99 Dalmatian puppies.

Birds, however, are another story. I hate birds. They scare the crap out of me. I have always feared them but as I’ve gotten older my fear has intensified. I can’t eat outside in the state of Florida because I spend the whole meal ducking from those winged savages swooping in trying to eat my French fries. I want to punch the people on the beach who bring snacks to feed the Seagulls thus creating a Hitchcock-esque horror scene while I’m trying to get a tan. My hysterical fear of birds has caused friends and family both embarrassment and laughter at my expense. I know it is over the top and ridiculous but I just can’t control it. It’s like Howie Mandel’s fear of germs or Indiana Jones’s hatred of snakes.

Anyhow, I bring this up, because for the last three years spring has meant war for me and birds. You see, my home has a cute little patio that is surrounded by 4 walls, 3 being sides of the house and one being a fence. Back in spring of 2008, the patio had a tree on it and some birds made a nest in the tree. I freaked out and called my father in law to come over and remove the nest because I didn’t want my worst enemies living on my patio. Pop Pop checked the nest, saw that it was empty and got rid of it for us.

The next day, I went out to play on the patio with Mac who was 2 and Charlie who was a baby. As soon as we got outside, birds starting dive bombing us. We raced inside wondering what the hell was going on. Were the birds that mad at us for removing their home? I’m pretty sure my screams were loud enough for someone in California to hear and come up with the script for that awful new movie Furry Vengeance. I apologize profusely for having anything to do with that. Blame the birds or Brendan Fraser or Hollywood Suits, but not me. I’m a victim just like the rest of the movie going public.

Well, it turned out that babies had been born in the empty nest and were hoping around on the ground of my patio because they couldn’t fly yet. So for the two weeks it took them to learn to fly, I had to keep my kids inside or risk them being attacked by the angry extended family of the fledglings living on my patio.

So when spring of 2009 rolled around and I saw birds scouting out my patio looking to make a home, I asked Pop Pop to come over and chop down the tree. I figured, if I didn’t have a tree, then birds wouldn’t want to nest on my hard brick patio. Makes sense, right? Apparently not to the birds, who built a nest on the tree stump right next to my giant air conditioner unit and laid some more eggs. It was a full month before I could use the patio.

This year, I went on the defensive and bought all kinds of bird repellant. Bobby stretched fishing wire across the top of our fence so birds couldn’t land there. I hung two fake hawks up to conjure up fears of predation and scare the birds away. And those stupid birds still did not stay away. They’ve spent the last week, circling our patio at all times of day. We yell, we blow horns, we set up a device that sprays air on them when they come within 4 feet. Nothing. Those birds just don’t care. They want to live on my barren, uncomfortable patio. Bobby, who was a pitcher in college, is now obsessed with taking them out for good by pelting them with balls next time he sees one. But the last thing I need is bad bird karma because my husband went all Glory Days and killed a bird with his fast ball. So it looks like I’m going to have to spend another May off the patio.

Birds 3. McCarthy Culkin 0.
I’ll be waiting for you in 2011, Birds. Next year is mine.