One of my greatest fears, realized.

by Katie on April 12, 2012

Anyone who has spent more than 4.7 minutes with me knows I do not like birds. At all.

I don’t do beaks. I don’t do feathers. I don’t do chirping.

I don’t do the mess they leave under my front porch.

In short, I would be perfectly happy if they had never made it aboard The Ark. [Although, I’m not sure they needed to, since they can fly, but surely the wings give out at some point?]

So, for no less than two years now (a time period which has not been inflated by exaggeration), I have had little mesh wire squares measured and cut to cover the 20 or so holes in our roof above the porch area (on purpose holes, not where we’re just missing a portion of our roof or anything) where the wire that was in place has fallen out.

I hated the birds that had inhabited those holes and spent their days flying in and out of roof, building nests and hatching more birds to occupy our home. However, I was too frightened by the possibility of getting close enough to those birds to actually place the wire over the holes with the giant staple gun. The birds and I were at a stand-still in our battle.

Last week, I decided it was time.

So I marched out bravely with my wire squares in one hand, staple gun in the other.

And punched one corner of that wire with all the ferocity I had in me. And…nothing.

There were no staples in my gun.

Now, I should have taken that right there as a sign my bird hole covering just wasn’t meant to be.

But, I had a few other things to pick up for the construction guys who were still at our house, so I decided to get some staples while I was at Lowe’s anyway.

Once again, after loading my gun, I marched back out bravely where my step-stool awaited me at the first non-covered hole.


One hole covered, without being attached by an angry mama bird.

Then I got to the third hole. And could not get past all the chirp-chirp-chirping coming from inside. Talk about cacophonous. And disturbing.

I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t separate those baby birds (as nasty and dreaded as they may be) from the outside world and live the rest of my days with a roof filled with dead baby birds.

So I left that one and moved on down to the next one. And the next.

By the fifth hole, I was getting excited about my progress.

And then it happened.

Just as I reached up to pound my staple gun into the first corner of that mesh wire screen, an angry bird darted straight out of that hole, directly toward my head.

And I did what any bird-fearing girl would do:  let out a blood-curdling scream, as if it was an ax murderer coming after me rather than a little bird, jumped, and nearly toppled over with my stool.

Three of the five construction guys working in the house came running out, I’m sure expecting to find me barely alive out there after all the commotion.

When they learned what happened, though, their concern was replaced with laughter.

My heart, however, had not yet recovered. It was still beating out of my chest, my knees were shaking, and I could not get inside fast enough.

Later, I noticed my upper elbow was rather tender and remembered hitting it on something during the bird incident. Sure enough, a week later, I have an eggplant-colored, and almost eggplant-sized bruise just above my elbow.  From the bird.

Needless to say, my feelings toward birds have only been intensified.

And no, the wire coverings have not been completed.



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