By Lisa Sugarman
Let me be the first to say that I love a good mystery. I mean who doesn’t, right? A little intrigue, a little deception maybe. It gets the mind going. In a good way. It makes you think and reason and surmise. And I love any reason to surmise.
But at the end of the day, what really makes a mystery exciting, at least for me, is being able to solve it. Otherwise it’s just open-ended, and that I don’t like. I’m more of an end-game-type girl. So the fact that I can’t for the life of me explain why a gang of birds is using my car for target practice every morning is becoming troublesome to me. Because after a solid month of waking up to my car splattered with dozens of little birdie calling cards, there’s no sign that the end is near.
See, even though we have a two-car garage, my car lives in the driveway year round. It’s just easier that way. Gives us more space to store stuff, you know? Plus, keeping my car outside gives me an unspoken, unlimited punch card to Sunny’s Car Wash whenever I want, so to me it’s a fair trade.
So when these stealth bombings first started about a month ago, when all the birds came back from Capistrano, or wherever it is they come back from, I really didn’t think much of it. I mean, birds poop. It’s just what they do. It’s what they’re known for. That and the whole miracle of flight thing. And if you keep a car outside, it’s a known risk. That’s why I didn’t pay too much attention the first few times my car was hit. But when one incident turned into multiple incidences and the streak spanned every day for a month, I knew I was dealing with a bigger issue.
The bottom line…these birds are out to get me. I know it. They’re deliberately targeting me, those sneaky little turds. Oh they seem all sweet and chirpy first thing in the morning from inside your bedroom, but they’re devious. They’re out there on those branches looking all cute and soft and meek, when what they’re really doing is mocking us. Calculating their next move.
I mean it’s hysterical, really, how much havoc these tiny little nuggets can wreak. Most mornings my rearview mirrors are caked in bird poop, to the point where I can’t see any objects in my mirror, let alone the objects that are closer than they appear. And while the rest of my car looks like it’s just been professionally detailed, the two side mirrors are almost unrecognizable as mirrors. It’s like they’re covered in Quikrete.
And I’ll be honest, I’m more than a little hurt about this personal attack because I feel like I’ve never been anything but a friend to the bird community at large. We have a lovely bird feeder in the back yard that’s always fully stocked with only the highest quality premium bird seed money can buy. Clearly an open invitation to stop by any time. So why me?
Dave just thinks I’m crazy. Plain and simple. Told me to pull my mirrors in at night and that would solve everything. That it wasn’t some kind of animal vendetta; that it was all in my head. And yeah, maybe I’m taking it all a little too personally but I can’t help it. They’re little terrorists.
Now for the record, Dave’s idea did work. But only until the birds figured out that the back bumper of my car was an even better place to spend the afternoon. So now when I open the back hatch of my truck every morning, there are little land mines peppered all over the handle, the bumper, the window, the windshield wiper. Dave actually videotaped them all dancing on my rear windshield wiper in some bizarre little poop-dance ritual.
We haven’t moved on to the fake owl or the BB gun just yet because I’m still hopeful that the little buggers will eventually get bored with me and move on. But it looks like this little mystery will remain a mystery and I just have to accept it and try to move on.
In the meantime, I try to remind myself of what my mother always told me, if a bird poops on you it’s considered good luck. And I’ve always believed her because I love superstitions. Especially good ones. But this is getting a little ridiculous. At this point I should’ve hit the lottery twice and won Publisher’s Clearing House at least a half dozen times.
How many months is it until the birds fly south again?
Couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. Dave captured it all on video.
Lisa Sugarman lives in Marblehead, Massachusetts. Read and discuss all her columns at facebook.com/ItisWhatitisColumn. She is also the author of LIFE: It Is What It Is available on Amazon.com and at Spirit of ’76 Bookstore.