A seasonal guest, who perched inside and had to fly ... places to go, I suppose
- Michelle Wood: SWCD
- December 28, 2009
- 936
It’s the courteous thing to do, especially during the holiday season.
How many people, though, do you know who smash their fist against their front door as they approach it ... from the INSIDE?
Maybe it’s just me, but that’s what I’ve been doing since the night that a bird flew into our house and threatened to disrupt not only my wife’s slumber, but Christmas itself.
I’ve got nothing against birds. In fact, we have not only a regulation bird feeder in the backyard, but a hummingbird feeder, as well, a tubular thing with a spout that lures them with its red coloring and sugary liquid, which I refill on a regular basis.
My wife even has a book -- Birds of Coastal Carolina -- whose appendix includes a list so that she might check off those she’s seen.
But of the dozens of species we’ve registered in our 10 yuletides here, none is called a Late Night Christmas Season Disrupter.
But those birds DO exist.
And one of them flew into our home and it was up to me to find a sensible solution to a situation that could have escalated into full-out bloody bird shed, since I knew precisely where not only my hammer, but my Roger Maris model baseball bat were stored, waiting for a moment of unabashed violence.
But that was the nuclear option and, as a peaceful man, I had every intention of exhausting all possible resolutions before I unleashed it.
My first step, after making sure that my early-morning brain was working, was locate the invader.
It was in the kitchen, perched on a garland that stretches between two wreaths, both of which feature, perhaps not coincidentally, artificial doves tucked into the boughs of greenery.
“OK,” I said, eyeing it and knowing that I was essentially on my own, my wife having undergone significant dental surgery that afternoon. “Don’t go anywhere.”
So I closed every door that opened into any room that bird might choose to inhabit: the stereo room, the main bathroom, the sunroom, the computer room, the bedroom. The only doorless space that remained unprotected was the living room and I knew from past experience what to expect if a bird flew there since, as faithful readers might recall, that was the scene of a showdown I’d just as soon not revisit.
Suffice it to say that it didn’t end well for that bird.
“Now,” I said, arming myself with nothing other than a red dish towel with a snowman stitched into it, “it’s time for you to go.”
The bird, erupting in a flurry of feathers, flew from the garland to a shelf above the refrigerator, right next to the flour canister, where it simply stayed for the next five minutes.
We stared at each other, I thinking of Poe’s “The Raven,” the bird perhaps channeling his inner “Twelve Days of Christmas” and that whole “partridge in a pear tree” refrain.
And it was amazing how, all of a sudden, every single decoration in the entire room seemed so fragile. From the Santa and Mrs. Claus salt and pepper shakers to the swags and candles and even the holiday season CDs propped up against the boombox ... not to mention the framed paintings over the kitchen table and the mistletoe hanging from the overhead light.
Just then, when I thought we’d reached an impasse and I was going to be forced to retrieve the bat or the hammer, the bird darted left and wrapped its talons around a chain that supported the light over the kitchen table.
I ran to the door that opened into the laundry room and threw open the door that would provide an exit into the garage.
Once there, I knew I could get that bird out safe and sound ... so I started to wave that red towel as if I were celebrating a goal at a Hurricanes game and quietly urging the fowl to do the fair thing.
“C’mon,” I yelled, loud enough to get its attention but low enough so that my slumbering wife could continue her dreams uninterrupted. “Get moving!”
And the bird, as if on command, flew from the kitchen, through the utility room and into the garage. Slamming those last two doors behind me, I pushed the button that caused the door to open and began the final push.
“Fly away!” I said, gesturing with my towel to the growing aperture. “Freedom awaits!”
The bird, perhaps claustrophobic at that moment, missed the gaping opening ... sort of like a hockey player missing an empty net on a breakaway, but a few taps on the underside of the garage door soon sent it on its way and into the night.
I leaned against the trunk of my 1991 Honda Civic and sagged.
Scarcely 15 minutes had elapsed, I noted, since the bird had invaded our space.
It seemed liked 15 hours.
The next day, my wife was none the wiser; I mean, every single, solitary decoration was in place and there were no gashes in ceilings or walls, where I might have left evidence of my interlude with that gray bird with black-tipped feathers.
My night visitor.
But to this day, when I use our front door -- where that bird had made a home in our Christmas wreath that hangs outside -- I bang on it with a closed fist.
And then, I do it again, knocking inside so that I might venture out.
So, in that flighty fashion, allow me to wish you a happy holiday season.
You’re always welcome in this space.
Mike Dewey can be e-mailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560.