The Birds And The Cats
A few weeks ago, on a Wednesday night, BF picked me up from work and we went straight to dinner. We got home around 8:30. We walked into the kitchen to find the huge bowl of fruit on the floor, along with a lot of photos that used to hang on the refrigerator.
As I stood there trying to process what had gone awry, something near the ceiling fluttered. It was a bird. I completely freaked out and ran into the spare bedroom only to find another bird. At this point I was in hysterics. BF was trying to calm me down and Mary Ann and Ginger were doing what they had been doing all day--trying to catch those damn birds. My downstairs neighbors told me the festivities began shortly after I had left for work, so the natural enemies had been at it for about 12 hours—give or take.
BF finally got the birds into the spare bedroom and got them out the window.
There was bird poop everywhere.
I came home the following day to find more bird poop and a broken candy dish. I looked and looked, but could find no bird.
Sunday evening, as I was sweeping under my bed, I swept out a--sock??? Oh no, fuck me. A dead bird. I had been sleeping over a dead bird for three nights. I screamed. And I screamed. I could not stop screaming. I really wanted to stop screaming, but I could not. Thankfully, the downstairs neighbors were not home.
I now know why they cover dead bodies. No one really wants to look at a dead body. I covered the little thing up with a paper towel. I finally got the courage to sweep him up. I felt so sorry for that bird. I knew it had died a horrible, torturous death, shitting itself all the while. Poor fucking thing.
Fast forward to last Saturday as I'm cleaning the house for girls' night. BF was not feeling well and he was lying in bed. I was on the phone talking to one of the girls and went to pick up a--cat toy??? Oh no, fuck me, again. Another dead bird. I flipped out, screamed bloody murder, and nearly gave BF a fucking heart attack. The friend on the phone was also freaking out. It's a dead bird. I have to go. I'll tell you about it when you get here.
BF scooped up the poor murdered bird and closed the chimney flue.
Of all the chimneys to come down, those poor bastards definitely picked the wrong one.
As I stood there trying to process what had gone awry, something near the ceiling fluttered. It was a bird. I completely freaked out and ran into the spare bedroom only to find another bird. At this point I was in hysterics. BF was trying to calm me down and Mary Ann and Ginger were doing what they had been doing all day--trying to catch those damn birds. My downstairs neighbors told me the festivities began shortly after I had left for work, so the natural enemies had been at it for about 12 hours—give or take.
BF finally got the birds into the spare bedroom and got them out the window.
There was bird poop everywhere.
I came home the following day to find more bird poop and a broken candy dish. I looked and looked, but could find no bird.
Sunday evening, as I was sweeping under my bed, I swept out a--sock??? Oh no, fuck me. A dead bird. I had been sleeping over a dead bird for three nights. I screamed. And I screamed. I could not stop screaming. I really wanted to stop screaming, but I could not. Thankfully, the downstairs neighbors were not home.
I now know why they cover dead bodies. No one really wants to look at a dead body. I covered the little thing up with a paper towel. I finally got the courage to sweep him up. I felt so sorry for that bird. I knew it had died a horrible, torturous death, shitting itself all the while. Poor fucking thing.
Fast forward to last Saturday as I'm cleaning the house for girls' night. BF was not feeling well and he was lying in bed. I was on the phone talking to one of the girls and went to pick up a--cat toy??? Oh no, fuck me, again. Another dead bird. I flipped out, screamed bloody murder, and nearly gave BF a fucking heart attack. The friend on the phone was also freaking out. It's a dead bird. I have to go. I'll tell you about it when you get here.
BF scooped up the poor murdered bird and closed the chimney flue.
Of all the chimneys to come down, those poor bastards definitely picked the wrong one.
posted by nottotaled at 9:05 AM
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