The Birds

I feel like her questions should be directed at me.

Although yesterday I was giving a similarly hysterical performance.

Why are they doing this? Why!?!

Am I some kind of things-that-flap whisperer?

(haha, considering what I do for a living, maybe.)

Ok let me re phrase that; I don't like things with wings but for some unknown reason they flock to me like flies to honey. Or more fittingly, like moths to a flame.

It took all my courage to walk calmly and not cry hysterically while in the butterfly enclosure up in Queensland.

As others stood patiently, waiting for them to land on their outstretched hands, I hot footed my way through and still managed to have a swarm of them land all over me.

When birds swoop my car I close my eyes and swerve. 

If something flies at me it's at its own risk since you can be sure I'll either flail wildly or run from the room screaming.

Right, so it's established, I'm a weird freak.

Now here's the backstory.

It all started a few months ago when the feisty little pigeons in my area decided that dog food was rather nice to munch on.

Since Oscar neither invokes fear or attempts to even try to chase them away, the birds have no qualms about helping themselves to his meals.

My little man is a sharer.

Now here's where it kind of gets messy.

We all know Oscar is a spoilt little pooch.

A day left out in the backyard is like a year in the wilderness for him.

When left outside for prolonged periods he comes bolting inside at the end of the day dishevelled and distressed barking like a mad dog for a good five minutes.

You could imagine what he would be saying in puppy speak.

Because I work from home he is predominately inside with me most of the time and because he has a lot a bit of separation anxiety he's gotten very good at holding onto his business (which couldn't be good for him surely) but when nature eventually bashes on his door screaming he very calmly scratches at my salon door alerting me that he needs to go outside. An almost perfect system.

Occasionally I don't hear him and accidents can happen, so on warm enough days I usually just leave the door to the backyard slightly ajar for easy bathroom access and initially the worst thing about this would be allowing flies into the house.

Not anymore.

Remember the pigeons with an appetite for MyDog? (the food not my actual dog)

Yea, well it must be really tasty since they've decided it would be worth the risk to creep inside the back door for a sneaky snack search and subsequently get trapped.

It seems flying in through a crack in the door is easier than flying back out again.

No biggy. Although the first time this happened I nearly cried and proceeded to hold my bladder all day (to get to the toilet you have to go through the laundry) but when this kept happening, I soon worked out that I could open the side door to the laundry pop some food just outside of it and this would usually encourage the trapped rat with wings to follow its greedy stomach to freedom.

Then there was that bird. The partridge in my Christmas tree.

I don't know what the hell possessed that one to come inside but I figured the allure of a natural bushy tree inside the shelter of a home was too good an offer to pass up.

Hence no real tree will ever feature in my house again.

I thought that would be the end of it.

You guessed it - I was wrong.

I don't know what I've done to deserve it but already in the space of a week I've been scared half out of my wits.

Firstly on Monday night by this:

No, it's not a bird. That, my friends, is a moth.

If you think I dislike butterflies, how do you reckon I feel about these ugly mo fo's…

To put it in perspective it was roughly the size of Oscars head.

Ok, so maybe it was more like the size of my palm… but still, you have to agree, that's one big assed moth!

I couldn't sleep for fear I would wake up with it down my throat a la Silence of the Lambs.

I knew it had flown into the bathroom but couldn't even muster the courage to get up and close the door on it.

I begged hubby to get up and kill it or at least shut the bathroom door before wedging a towel under it (so it wouldn't crawl out from under there) but he quickly dismissed my ridiculousness then merely rolled over and went back to sleep.

Thankfully it was dead in the morning.

(which is the only reason I could get close enough to take a photo of it for you.)

And finally I bring you to yesterdays fiasco.

So I'm getting ready for work, minding my own business when I hear a furious flapping coming from what I assume is the laundry.

No problem, I figure.

I'm seasoned now, surely I can deal with this in a breeze.

I simply closed the laundry door leading into the house and opened the one from the sideway.

Curiously I can't see the bird anywhere in the usual places.

'Hmmm, maybe it's hiding in the toilet', I think to myself.

Back to my routine and within minutes more furious flapping.

'Stupid bird' I muse, 'Just fly out the freeken side door, you idiot'

I finish applying my make up and setting up my room for the day, sit down to wait for my first client while trawling through the web and simply expect the bird to be gone by lunch time.

A half hour ticks by and I havn't heard the bird.

Hopeful and with bated breath, I walk to the laundry door and open it just a peep, just enough to peek around the room.

Ok so nothing. I breathe a sigh of relief.

As I turn to walk away, there, perched on my kitchen sink, is the one and the same goddamn pigeon!

For a second I stand frozen, caught in the dead eye stare of this brazen bird before suddenly it decides to take me on and in a flash we are a flurry of frantic flapping and blood curdling screams.

You'll be relieved to know I managed to make it out of there alive before slamming the door to my lounge, (yes I live in a fun house of a thousand doors), shutting it off from the rest of my house.

Just then my first client turns up to find me weeping into the phone. Hubby once again had to save the day though I've since discovered he's not a big fan of birds or bugs either, so is more a hindrance than a help.

His solution? To rip open the fly screen on the kitchen window in order to unhook the latch that opens it to allow it a way out...

yea, now I have a torn up fly screen in my kitchen window and more bird poop than you can poke a stick at.

I know, it's definitely time for a doggy door and you best believe it will be a magnetic one or I fear it'll be stray cats next.

I'm like that song about the woman that swallowed the fly then swallowed the bird to catch the fly then swallowed the cat to catch the bird to catch the fly etc, etc…

Oh why me dear lord? Why me?