I generally have a one-blog-post-per-day limit, because I like to space them out to smooth over the periods where I have nothing to say, and because otherwise I could potentially become a sad creature who blogs about her life with such obsessive fervor that she neglects to live her life. However, I have just been the victim of my second bird to the face in less than a month, and I am really having trouble accepting and coping with the incident. Is it a coincidence? I ask myself. Did I offend some bird somewhere, in such a way that it ordered a hit on me, and all breeds of fowl set aside their differences to answer the call? Is the universe trying to tell me something? Surely there is a better and clearer way to deliver the message, Universe, than chucking birds at my face?
I was taking an armload of dirty laundry out to the washing machine, which is in a little closet off our porch. I opened the sliding glass door, chatting with Max over my shoulder, all innocent and carefree and trusting in the goodness of the world and all its creatures. Out of nowhere, a gigantic ball of flapping, shedding feathers fell from the sky, pooped on me, and only missed getting tangled in my hair because I screamed and chucked all the laundry into the air in a warding-off gesture. The pigeon (for this is what the ball of feathers turned out to be) landed just outside the sliding glass door, which I promptly slammed shut. Max was whimpering nervously, because I had screamed. I examined the bird through the sliding glass, and saw that it had a hurt wing, which sort of explains its behavior but does not explain why I had to be the one to get in the way of the suicide dive. The cats gathered at the window (as seen in this picture), the pigeon settled itself on Max's talking car outside (as seen in the upper left hand corner of this picture), and Max and I had a frank talk in which I apologized for screaming and scaring him, explained that I was fine and the pigeon had just startled me, and advised him not to get too emotionally attached to the wounded pigeon, who will almost certainly be making some cat's day a better one in the very near future.
The pigeon is still sitting out there, the raven to my brooding Edgar Allen Poe. The cats are enthralled. Max keeps pointing at it and repeating the key phrases from my talk with him, in tones of hushed fascination. "Bird. Mama scare. Mama cry. Mama is okay. Flying. Owies. Owie wing. Bird." Not to be insensitive to the pigeon's plight, but since it is likely to die and I cannot save it (even if I were so inclined after being scared, feathered, and pooped on by it), I wish it would move along and perish elsewhere. I do not relish the thought of explaining its death to Max, and then having him repeat, "Die. Bird. Cat eat. Bloody massacre" for the rest of the week.