This one time at Writer's Camp…
I decided, after looking at the grass sway gently in the breeze, that it was past time to mow. I was reluctant, however. It was hot, really damned hot, and muggy as well. I decided “The hell with it. I need to mow” and, after a brief consultation with Weather.com, decided that it was as good of a time as any to do so. I step outside, prime the lawnmower, swear multiple times about how hot it was, and begin to guide the lawnmower around to the front yard.
As I started mowing in neat strips, I noticed a small, black shape in front of the mower. I stop and stare, wondering whose dog pooped on the lawn when it moved a head and a beak became apparent. Crap, I thought. I figured someone’s cat (or dog) had gotten a robin and now it was injured, too weak to fly away. I killed the lawnmower (be honest… you thought I was going to say “killed the robin”, didn’t you?) and tried to scoot the bird away from the lawnmower and into the bushes nearby. Then it tried to fly away and only managed to make it a few feet, though both wings were flapping vigorously. I saw that it was a baby and it must have fallen out of the nest. My suspicions were confirmed moments later when a pissed-off robin buzzed my head.
Buzzed? Maybe I should be clearer. Maybe it was dive bombed. Kamikazied. Playing a RL game of Angry Birds. The conversation was more like this:
“Tower, this is Ghostrider. Requesting permission for a flyby.”
“Negative, Ghostrider. The patter in full.”
Testosterone lacing is illegal in birds, I hear. Mother Robin must have been doping like Floyd Landis or something, because her wings were causing a small hurricane as she buzzed me again, her chirps and shrill cries loud in my ears, talons dangerously close to my scalp. Those nails looked sharp when they’re millimeters from your eyes, I’ll add for the benefit of you city folk at home.
“Chirp! Chirp!” she screamed. Loosely translated: I will tear off your scrotum and feed it to my young!
“Hey!” I protested, trying not to hurt mother bird as I attempted to figure out a way to get baby bird back safely in its nest. She did not care for my feeble attempts.
“Chirp! Chirp chirp chirp!” Translation: Your infestation has gone on too long, monkey thingy! I will feast on your entrails this sunset!
“Holy crap!” I nearly screamed, swatting at the angry bird and trying (oh, it was a struggle) to not squish her misbegotten chick out of frustration. Meanwhile, her cries had drawn the attention of other birds, who started to go insane as well, crying and chirping from the neighbors tree.
Eat him! Eat him! One cried. “Chirpity chirp!”
Peck his eyes out, another demanded, which is what I gathered from “Squawk!”.
Note to self: no more donations to the Animal Liberation Front — Mid-Atlantic Region. Damned Hitchcock loving menaces…
I finally got everyone calmed down and finished mowing the lawn. Baby Robin (I dubbed him Deathwing) did not come out from the bushes, and Mama Robin (aka Screaming Fiery Red Death From Above) quit trying to rake my eyes. All’s well that ends well, right?
I will sleep with my door locked tonight. Sometime during the Witching Hour, a lone robin will cry out, hungry for vengeance and blood. I will curl up in my blanket and wait for that horrid “chirp!” to come through my bedroom window.