Cleolinda Jones (cleolinda) wrote,
Cleolinda Jones

  • Mood:

So... I was going to take the dogs outside, you know, let them run wild and/or free in the back yard, but then just as I got to the screen door I saw a dead bird lying on the deck.

After I got back from taking the dogs out on leashes to do their business, where they were actually much happier, I think, I positioned myself in front of the back door to deal with this problem. Sister Girl is squeamish squared. There was no question that I, as the big sister, was going to have to deal with this. And I don't deal well with dead things, having very little experience with them, as you may know. I get horribly maudlin over dead things. Particularly birds.

I decided to take a stiff outdoor broom and a dustpan out there and see what I could do. It was a brown bird, a very pretty bird. Nothing seemed to be wrong with it that I could tell. Standing outside, I started to worry that it was only very, very tired and that trying to move it would piss it off and it would peck my eyes out. Or something. Then I remembered that I wear glasses, and that I would probably have a fighting chance if it did.

My previous dead bird experience suggested that it would not be conveniently stiff, but I had no idea what I was in for. I tried edging the dustpan under the bird, and it just sort of... gave way, like fabric. I couldn't get any leverage on the damn thing. I'd scoop, and it'd move forward. Scoop. Move. Scoop. Move. Sniffle. Dead. I started to wonder if someone had left a freakishly realistic plush bird on my deck. And then I noticed that the bird was leaking. Well, that settled that question.

Do birds have purple blood? I thought they had... you know... normal-colored blood. And stuff. This one seemed to be sort of oozing from the... beakal area. Which supported my hypothesis that it had flown face-first into my sister's big bedroom window and bounced off into eternal darkness. The blood, if it was blood, was sort of the color and consistency of watered-down blackberry juice. About that point I turned back to the door and wibbled for a few moments. To be honest, I almost burst into tears. But faint heart never won dead bird. Or something.

I eventually achieved my goal of Dead Bird Removal by shrieking "EEEEEE!" in a very loud and girly voice and rolling it into the dustpan with the broom, and then I sort of ran on tiptoe over to the edge of the deck--the part overlooking the woods--and flung the victim into its leafy grave. Except that the dogwood tree hanging right over the deck completely covers the railing with branches, so I had to balance the dustpan in one hand ("AH! THE BIRD IS LOOKING AT ME! THE DEAD BIRD IS LOOKING AT ME!") while I pulled up the branches and stuck my head under with the other. And the whole time I'm thinking, five bucks says that Dead Bird is actually only a baby, and Mama Bird is some giant wrathful harpy sitting on THIS BRANCH RIGHT HERE. So I'm sitting here beating around blindly in the leaves, hoping not to get my hand pecked off and handed back to me, and really hoping that I'm not going to look over at my other hand and find the bird sitting up in the dustpan drooling purple bird juice with a brain-eating look in its eye, and my three dogs are standing at the big kitchen window going, "What the fuck is she doing?"

After I was done with the funeral services, I got out the hose and dedicated a general deck-washing and plant-watering to the Juicy Dead Bird. May you find seed in the halls of your fathers, JDB. Or something.


Tags: best of
  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →
← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →