I will never call anyone a bird-brain again. Imagine finding out, after at least (ahem) 29 years on the earth, that birds are very intelligent? Apologies to the bird-watchers among you, who already know this.
Here’s the thing: when I’m on deadline (like now) I get very anxious . . . my husband might even call it spastic. I have to look for ways to calm down, and one of the best ways for me to do that is to go outside and sit on the covered patio and look out at the water.
But lately we’ve had bird issues. Now, I like birds as much as the next person. I think they’re little aerodynamic miracles, and I’ve even envied them their freedom upon occasion—though not their diet. Go figure, but I’ve never been partial to worms or grubs.
However, what I don’t like is their elimination process, and specifically not when they insist on leaving their little bird turds on my patio. It’s gross. And this morning, when I peacefully took my tea outside to indulge in a couple more chapters of Kate Morton’s The Distant Hours (wonderful!) I found that a bird had left me a present on my favorite chair. Not cool.
The birds insist on populating the patio because I have two greyhounds who are picky eaters and leave kibble in their bowls. For some unknown reason the blue-jays, in particular, enjoy Science Diet—and they swoop in to steal it, even when I’m sitting 3 feet away.
So this morning I got the bright idea to dump the leftover dog food in the basins of the non-functional fountain (don’t ask) in another part of the yard. And within 3 minutes, the bird party had moved. My patio is suddenly passé.
I’m so happy that I may even leave them a shot-glass of tequila!
And now back to the manuscript . . . xo,