About a week ago, as I was leaving my house, I was assaulted from behind. By a bird, I added, securing my poor taste.
Something bumped the back of my head, and I cautiously turned around (the wrong reaction, probably – the cautiously bit; I suppose I should respond with mad alacrity, but ever since an incident in 4th grade or something when I flinched and smacked the kid behind me with my head, embarrassing myself and hurting us both, I’ve honed my wimpy instincts to at least make me flinch like molasses flinches, which I’m assuming isn’t very discernible from when it isn’t flinching, but if you’ve seen otherwise please let me know so I can adjust my simile), only to see a mockingbird fluttering about in my rearward proximity, wings a’flapping in a way that appeared angry.
Ah, simply my bias, I figured, recalling the event referred to parenthetically above and assuming Mr. Mockingbird (I had to look this up – if you’re not a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, I can’t identify you on sight) was probably just similarly embarrassed, having flown into me by accident. Sure. Then again, I turned around again when I was several steps away and noticed that he (or she, or a different bird, who knows) was perched on a nearby ledge, wavering its tail up and down, which Planet Earth viewings suggested to me was, indeed, a battle signal. Yipes, I thought, and cried and peed and ran away, pledging to tell all the friends I don’t have about my bird adventures.
Of course, the event was soon forgotten. …Until a day later or so, when something very similar happened again. This time was more puzzling, because I didn’t have to go through the initial adjustments of figuring out what caused it, and was now wondering what was going on. No time for that, though, as the bird zoomed in for another attack, and I ducked, and realized there was a personal vendetta at work. I… smelled wrong? My head looked worm-ish? I would think these things to and fro my apartment, fearing the steps in front when I’d spy the mockingbird, checking me out, then dash to or away from my door while the thing swooped at me and clucked, loudly. And then the radius increased: I’d get freaking dive-bombed across the street. Me – a white, American, young-ish male with all of his faculties and limbs and with a good job – and I can’t feel safe for the 50 feet around my apartment? This just won’t stand.
Darkly, I wished ill will upon the bird, and questioned what I should do about my situation. And then in a shock of duh, I remembered the world doesn’t revolve around me: I probably wasn’t the only one being harassed by this wing-ed one. Sure enough, I witnessed a delivery dude get the swoop a day later. That same inner darkness cheered that I was not alone in my misery, and I timed my next few escapes from the house to match when others would pass by, my beloved distractions.
After I’d had my fill of torturing the mortals with their unawareness of Bird, it further dawned on me that this likely wasn’t random: there was surely a reason this was happening. Nay, not something cosmic, but, y’know, obvious: the thing was goddamn nesting.
I looked up how long this might last, and it appeared there’d be a chance that the apartment front could be a warzone for the next two or three weeks. Not horrible, but dark thoughts crept forth again: where was this nest? What would happen if it got, I dunno, accidentally bumped from the tree it was in?
Nothing was going to come of this. I may tirelessly plot against the innocent, making detailed charts and graphs on my 55-year long plan to revenge, say, bumping into my head in 4th grade, but it’s not likely I’ll put such things into play. Idle thoughts. I’ve got video games a’waiting.
This morning, leaving the house, a baby mockingbird was chirping, out on the sidewalk. Fluttering its little baby wings. I know (or I think I know) that I can call some type of service to maybe come with gloves and pick this thing up and care for it, just as I (think I) know that it being out of its nest and not able to fly is likely a death sentence. I went inside, and started to type this. I did wish for this, I suppose. I’m not happy about it, and I think I’d resigned myself to two or three weeks of just dealing with it. But here I sit.