This is Really for the Birds

This is Really for the Birds

         “Dan, what is that?” Linda looked in disbelief at our Ming tree that sits in the corner of the family room.

         Linda is very proud of that tree. It’s over seven feet tall and although it is artificial, it is very realistic. At least it is realistic enough to fool a couple of Meadowlarks, who were sitting in the Ming tree doing what birds should do.

         Linda had propped the backdoor open to permit Max to wander in and out of the house this pleasant afternoon. We usually don’t do that, but Max is recovering from heartworm treatment and is a little listless. He wanders in and out of the house. Fortunately he is feeling much better and the backdoor has been closed--now. Nevertheless, during this brief moment, the two meadowlarks managed to fly into our house and take up residence in Linda’s Ming tree.

         After the amazement wore off, we determined that they were not going to remain as pets and had to vacate the tree. So the task was to get them to fly out the open door. That was much easier said than done. We first concentrated on one bird that flew to the top of the family room drapes. Now in most houses this would not present a problem, except in our family room the ceiling is eighteen feet high, well beyond my reach.

         So, out to the garage I went and retrieved our extension ladder. I placed it up against the wall and scaled it, with my best fireman stride, with a broom in hand. Well, I flailed around for a moment trying to get the bird to fly down to the door. Now, I believe it must be instinct for birds to fly UP. Continuously, that dang bird would fly over to the ceiling fan and sit there. Down I would come and then I would flail at the ceiling fan. Over to the drapes he would fly. So, up the ladder I would scale and perform more flailing—over to the ceiling fan—back to the drapes. Up and down I would go, with Linda pointing to where he was currently perched. This went on for a good twenty minutes, until the bird decided to change his route. This time he flew from the drapes to the kitchen. So, I flailed around in the kitchen and fortunately he flew out the kitchen door to freedom.

         One bird down and one to go—where in the world was the second bird? We looked at the top of the drapes, in the kitchen, in the living room. He was not there. Stealthbird was hiding from us. Up to the second floor, which is a big open space between most of the rooms of the second floor and is open to the first floor, we crept looking for the bird.

         “Here he is!” Linda shouted, pointing to the top of my bookcases.

         Now, as I have alluded, our rooms are very open upstairs. This is important because that bird flew from my study to the entertainment room (big screen television)—from the entertainment room to Linda’s study—from Linda’s study back to the entertainment room—from the entertainment room to my study. Back and forth I chased that dang bird, trying to get him to fly downstairs to the open door. Well, it just was not happening. I considered getting my .45 cal. handgun out and shooting the dang thing; and I would have had I not been concerned with the collateral damage.

         And so it went on for two hours. Linda and I ran after the bird, me flailing with the broom and her flailing with a central air/heat filter (it made sense at the time). Occasionally, the bird would fly to the family room drapes, where I would traipse down the stairs and up the ladder to flail again—only to have the evil bird (kin to a duck) fly into the entertainment room.

         We opened the drapes in the entertainment room, opened the windows, and popped the screens off the windows to give the bird an escape route. Unfortunately, he had to fly DOWN to get out the window. And we have already established the fact that birds don’t like to fly DOWN; they fly UP. This was not working. The bird was easily flying past my flailing and Linda’s whatever-it-was with the filter. I needed another plan.

         I had to contain that bird to one room. I sent Linda to retrieve bed-sheets. The bird was resting in the entertainment room. All the windows were open and begging him to escape—to no avail. Up on the ladder I scaled. I stapled the bed-sheets to the ceiling so that they draped across the openings into the other rooms. With the bed-sheets stapled to my ceilings I again began my flailing. Around and around the room Linda and I flailed. The bird was successfully contained to the entertainment room. But he refused to fly DOWN. For another forty minutes we did our flailing dance with the bird, until suddenly he swooped DOWN AND OUT THE WINDOW. Quickly we scrambled to the windows and shut them, effectively banning the wicked bird to the environment.

         We collapsed in the big easy chairs in the entertainment room. I know that somewhere there is one tired-arsed bird who is sitting in a tree panting his little bird-arse off, and thinking, “What is it with these people, it’s getting where a bird can’t sit in a Ming tree anymore!”