Every day, a tiny yellow bird tries to break into my house.
For the past two weeks -- although I assume it was happening long before -- this festive little stalker has been trying to gain entrance, every morning, every afternoon, every night. He is relentless. And adorable! And precious. And psychotic! I've seen him (I assume it's a him, because only guys would be dumb enough to do this repeatedly) trying to shatter his way in through the glass, "Die Hard"-style. I've watched him fling himself against the front door (which didn't work), the sliding glass door (also didn't work) and the other sliding glass door (which is troubling, because that means he's done some research into our multiple entrances). I've watched him stand outside the front door. Waiting. Watching. Always watching.
Naturally, as is often the case when confronted by a 9-ounce creature who communicates via musical whistling, I'm terrified. Why does this bird want in so badly? Did he used to live here? Does he think I'm his mommy? Does he think I am in possession of delicious breadcrumbs? Do birds even eat breadcrumbs? These are the questions I am currently wrestling with, although if I ever open the door I will apparently be wrestling with a bird. If I win, though, I'll be sure to (puts on sunglasses) tweet about it.
It always starts the same. I work at home, so I'll be sitting on the couch in my pajama pants eating Lucky Charms at 2 p.m. when I'll hear a flitting, fluttering sound. But not a quiet, sweet fluttering, like you'd associate with shorebirds or sparrows. It's an insistent sound, violent, dangerous. It does not sound like a bird should sound, but something incorrect and sinister. That's why when I heard it I initially suspected squirrels, or ghosts, or bears. (Note: It's usually bears.)
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And it continues. He'll try the front door. He'll try the window. He'll flee into the forests when I stand up to shoot a video to prove to friends that my life is in danger. (I'm basically "Rear Window"ing it in here.) "He's so cuuuuuuuute," friends have said, friends from afar, people who obviously don't care that I am about to be murdered. They can sit safely on other computers far away, envisioning only Tweety Bird lolling around my window doing cute little human things with his wings. They can't know what it's like to be trapped indoors, being dive-bombed by a lightning bolt of death who, when faced with a thick glass window, thinks "I GOT THIS" and pecks at it 9 million times. This bird is not convinced by science, is what I'm saying.
So you can imagine what happened when I realized there were two of them. This goes some way to explaining why the bird is always around -- he's not, I guess, he just has a friend. Actually, it's probably a mate, says my 10-year-old, who in recent weeks has displayed a preternatural knowledge of yellow-bird mating habits. "Look, they're flying around the yard," he says, "It's probably mating season." First of all, YOU WASH YOUR MOUTH OUT TALKING ABOUT BIRD SEX, LITTLE MAN. Second of all, what kind of science classes have you been taking? Because you know like light-years more about birds than I ever did.
So to tempt fate, I am now sitting out on my balcony, one flight up. (GET IT?) And I've definitely scared him off. He knows the muscle is here now. I'll just sit out here for the rest of the summer. If this plan doesn't work, though, I'll have to just (puts on sunglasses) wing it.