Opening the door a little after 3 a.m. this morning, after I strapped her collar around her little neck, Maggie Rose is off to do her business. I hear something flapping around, thinking she’s mighty quick. She didn’t have time to get down stairs. It’s not Maggie. It’s a bird, past my head, in my house. A bird in the middle of the night, chirping, flying into my house. It doesn’t appear to be the nocturnal sort either. 🙄 (Maybe nocturnal for one night.) It’s a little bird and I have no clue as to what type bird. Who really cares, at 3 a.m.?
With eyes barely open, stumbling around, I try to catch the thing. It sits on my mirror, flaps on my books. I’m thinking I don’t have time for this nonsense, I want to go back to bed.
Each time I get close enough to grab my feathered friend, it flys a little higher, landing out of reach. I’m afraid I’ll squish it if I grab it too quickly, tightly. And I also fear the beak, I fear getting pecked by the little jerk.
What the heck? Who has a bird fly in their house in the middle of the night?
Maggie looks around wondering what in the world I’m doing.
George W comes in the house. The bird goes dark...not a peep. Radio silent. This is going nowhere fast. I have no idea where it last landed, during all the chaos.
I leave the door open, gather Maggie up, and go back in my bedroom, shutting my bedroom door. Hopefully when I open my door again it will have all been a dream.
Bird poop. That’s all I’m thinking.
I’m hoping it‘s gone next time I crawl out of bed. Just like Alvin the chipmunk.
Maggie and I seem to attract stories, crazy stories sometimes.
The bird was gone, later this morning.
No poop.
Thank you. Little freak.
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