The Red Breasted Robin of Spring

Ah, Robins. "The first bird of spring" my friend in Spokane used to say fondly of these cheerful, chubby, red-breasted birds. Huh. I hadn't ever really considered them the official welcome wagon for spring until she called it to my attention. Now, I too view them as the spring-time beacon of good weather to come, until this week that is. A funny little thing happened on the way to my day last Thursday.

It began when I woke earlier than usual to a thud sound on my bedroom window. It was not an unfamiliar sound. A poor, confused, little winged friend had run into the window. But as I lay there, contemplating whether or not to get up, something unusual happened. I heard it again, and again, and again, only not on the bedroom window this time. I thought perhaps I had been mistaken about the sound. So I reluctantly dragged myself from my warm bed, and plodded into the kitchen slowly, looking at each window as I was still hearing the sound. It soon became apparent it was coming from the kitchen window. It was, in fact a robin and one that had already seen its’ fair share of spring worms I might add. This silly bird was repeatedly flying into the window. Over, and over and over. I stood there bewildered by this strange behavior. It must be confused I surmise whilst sipping from the cup of coffee I had poured.

Enter my 13 year old son, Gavin. After eating his breakfast and watching this bird continue to attempt a break-in, he announces “I am gonna kill that stupid bird.” “No” I say, “the poor thing is simply confused. Just go scare it away.” Obedient as he is, he does just that. Problem solved.

NOT!

The bird proceeds to find the girls bedroom windows and attack them with the same vigor he had for the kitchen. Seems strange your thinking and I would have to agree. Doesn’t this bird know the serious air soft arsenal I have at my disposal? Clearly not. We are after all talking about automatic weaponry. As it comes back around and begins on the dining room window, I agree that it might be okay for Gavin to go out and shoot in the general direction of the bird. You know, again just to “scare” it away. It again, appears to have worked.... Until Friday morning. Once again, nestled in my toasty bed, I find that I am awake earlier than I would like to be. Then I realize, much to my chagrin, I have been woken by a frighteningly familiar sound. Yes, the robin. I am puzzled. I do not comprehend this sadistic routine. I begin to inquire of my friends and neighbors. I post on Facebook, knowing this will get answers. Has anyone heard of strange aviary behavior such as this? Were they experiencing anything similar? Did they have a BB gun? Oh, no, sorry. That would be wrong.

Fast forward to Saturday. This devil bird has now begun to defecate on all the windows as it attacks them and now has broadened its’ territory to include the drivers’ side window of my van. Are you kidding me? What in the world? If you look out the kitchen, dining room, boys bedroom or at the van windows, you see a targeted war zone. Robin 10, Tami, 0. All right. GAME ON!

I have read Ephesians 6:10 and on and I know spiritual warfare. I will rebuke this little punk and keep my airsoft pistol in my back pocket while I do.

Sunday morning, I wake early to my alarm and proceed with confidence to the kitchen. With my bible under my arm, I am ready to grab a cup of coffee and head to the greenhouse for my morning devotions. “Whack” “Whack” “Whack” “Thud!” No way! That darn bird. I pour my coffee and continue out to pray anyway, determined not to allow this bird to soil my Sunday morning. I open the slider and Sammie, our dog, runs out before me. Some movement in the yard by our fire pit caught my eye. “A chicken?” (sorry Judi, :0) ) Has our house turned into a scene from a bad Alfred Hitchcock movie? For many of you that are reading this and wondering, let me just answer the question. No, we did not get chickens. I tried to chase the chicken off figuring that even if I was unsuccessful at getting the robin to leave, I should certainly be able to force a silly chicken to head back home. WRONG! Not even the dog would help me with this one. What kind of a dog won’t chase a chicken? Seriously? Traitor!

All right. I am forced to pull out the big guns. What are the big guns you ask? Sadly not the AK, Famas, or M-16 air soft guns my oldest owns. They merely sent the crazed bird to a temporary vantage point, slightly beyond my FPS (Feet Per Second) reach. No, the big gun I am talking about is my supreme ability to transform into Carol Burnette and be a complete blubbering, goobery, but loud and effective idiot. Proudly, Gavin has also acquired this talent.

Well, it is Monday, mid- morning and I am pleased to report, the Robin is MIA.

But really, would you have come back if you had seen me spazzz out in the yard? Not likely.

Anyone know a good therapist? I might need it!