Storytime!

Cozy up, kids, and I’ll tell you a story.

It was a cold winter’s night … okay. It was last night and it was downright frigid. Cold air + wind = feels like -30. Freezing for all God’s creatures.

Like birds.
How do I know?
One tried to come stay with us.

Picture this. Dave is on the phone with his mom; I’m on the couch, facing away from him. He breaks his conversation with his mom to ask if I’d gotten the mail. Nope. (It was cold out. I wasn’t going out there!) Expecting some sort of pinball package, he decided to brave it and walk to the mailbox. So I’m hearing noise. He’s talking to his mom, shoes are shuffling, I think I hear the door open.

Then I see something fly over my head. My brain tells me, Oh. Dave didn’t go outside yet. He’s throwing Emmett’s duck. The throwing of Emmett’s blue duck is a super regular occurrence. Makes total sense. Only then I realize it’s not the blue duck. It’s a live bird. Not blue and not a duck.

Somehow, this bird was right at the top of the door when Dave opened it to go get the mail and she snuck her way in. (You really can’t blame her. It was super cold! Did I mention that?) Registering that this is a LIVE BIRD, I jump off the couch and run towards the door. Emmett is the dog who will chase a blue duck but is actually scared of real bird things close up so he’s running with me. Dave returns from the mailbox and I announce the presence of the bird. He doesn’t believe me … until she swoops into the kitchen.

He tells his mom goodbye, that he has to go catch a bird. Once he’s hung up, I ask him how one catches a bird. (Seriously. I had no clue.) His idea is to open all the doors (Remember it’s -75 or something ridiculous like that.) and direct the bird towards them. Well, birds, it turns out, are not great at directions. After some small shrieks (me), hiding (the dog), and Dave waving his arms after the bird, she goes towards the front door. Yes! Victory is ours! So close!

It flew upstairs.

Dave runs up after her; the dog follows (to be curious and cower, not to actually help). I stay downstairs until I get yelled at to help (I don’t perform well in situations like this without clear directions.) and head up too. Luckily, there is a door to a small balcony on the upper level. We opened it … and the bird exited. Followed by Emmett. (Again, not helpful, dog.) I slam the door shut, excited at our luck. And then realize the dog is outside on the balcony, trying to regain his dignity by angry barking at the bird once it flew away.

We let the dog back in (no bird this time), close all the doors, and note that the temperature in the house has dropped a good 10 degrees. (Sorry, furnace. Sorry, gas bill.) I didn’t get photographic proof of the bird because, well, we were busy cowering/chasing/opening doors. But this morning while cleaning I found some lovely bird poop on the wall and the smallest of feathers near a lamp she perched upon. Proof of the bird who visited this house on one chilly Thursday evening.