The Robin

I have resigned my efforts to rid my territory of this bird. It seems to have no fear... not of my large, life like photo copies of birds of prey hanging in my windows, nor of my loud goofy noises. It doesn't seem to be startled by my sons attempts to shoot at it with full-automatic weapons. It also appears to be a somewhat educated bird or perhaps we are guilty of providing said bird with its' education. Let me explain. If the object of my extreme dislikingness has been hurling itself at the kitchen window in the morning and it observes me there, trying to sneak up with a weapon of some sort or maybe just the camera, the next day it will choose one of the kids bedroom windows instead. If I am caught there, it promptly gives me the tail and heads for the dining room. To give you a sense of the intensity with which it is hurling its' now absurdly bloated body at my windows, the airtight seal of the dining room window is now broken. Now we have a foggy reminder of this fowl visitor.

I do have to confess, I am beginning to actually feel a bit of sympathy for this guy. I think something may be seriously wrong. Why? you ask, have I made this aviary diagnosis? Well, let me tell you, this bird is now the size of a softball. We left our house the other day, only to see it taunting us from the front lawn. I rebuked the bird, yet again, then quickly re-thought my spiritual assault. What if it exploded right there in my front yard? This would be bad. Really, really bad. What would I tell my neighbors? "Sorry about the mess. I've taken up rebuking spiritually wayward animals?" You can see my dilemma.



I am attempting to I coming to terms with this ailing avian, and I have a new home front dilemma that has drawn my attention. I noticed this disruption around Saturday. I was in my room doing... who knows what, when my sensitive nose caught wind of a very distasteful odor. I snooped around a bit. Finding nothing, I absently went about my day.

Easter Sunday, two of my nephews were up celebrating Jesus with us. My sister-in-love put the littlest down for a snooze, in the pak-n-play, in our bedroom. I went to put something in our room and about fell over when my poor nose was accosted by this heinous smell. "Okay, this is not the baby, perhaps the fish tank?" Not likely, but lets hope.

Mark checked it all out to no avail. What in the world? Monday morning the aroma had matriculated beyond our room. Now the odor hung through out the house. I had a bad feeling the robin was somehow involved. Mark, being a bit more level headed, (I know,your shocked at my confession) re-called a similar smell from his childhood days. Poor Mark right? He begins to suspect a dead critter in or under the house. Upon further investigation by my brave husband, he found that he was correct, twice. He lifted the lid for the crawl space and the stench just about took him back to Haiti. What he discovered was two large, dead rats, directly under our bedroom.

While I was away at school with the kids, Mark, being the manly man that he is disposed of deceased rodents, put a fan under the house to get the stink out, and bought a deodorizer for our bedroom. I was so thankful and so grateful... until I went back into the bedroom which now smelled of cat pee?!!? What? I begin sniffing around, on a full blown mission this time. "Are you sure it was only two dead rats? You didn't see the robin laying around down there did you? Did we bring something home in a bag with cat smell on it?"

Enter Mark. "Smells way better in here right?" "It smells like cat pee now." I whine, thinking there is no end in sight to the horrid smells in my bedroom. "Really?" He queries puzzled. "I bought a lavender room deodorizer." "OHHHH! Okay. That explains it." You see, my nose and my brain are at somewhat of an impasse on this fragrance. My brain knows that lavender is supposed to be a soothing aroma, but.... my nose having gotten the message askew from my brain interprets this soothing fragrance as cat pee.

I know, clearly, I still need to see that therapist.

The Red Breasted Robin - The Saga Continues

The Red Breasted Robin. My nemesis! I am feeling alone in my sentiments towards this creature. Even just this week our local newspaper proudly hailed a photograph of this "bird of spring". While I too enjoy a good robin's egg or two, or even three... bags, I am becoming a bit jaded at the mere mention of the word, ROBIN. And while I acknowledge that these are not the highest quality of photos, you must understand that these are action shots, taken from a hidden vantage point.

Clearly you can see the head on lunacy with which he propels himself straight at the window.

And to top it off, these disturbances are occuring earlier and earlier. This morning it was 6:07 when I looked at the clock after hearing the first thud. Today he was particularly vengeful.

Alright, so it didn't have exactly the desired affect. Our MIA robin is very much just IA now. Tuesday morning the window was so covered in poooh, you could almost detect a slight impressionistic view point of my friend, the robin.

A few of you have been so gracious as to investigate this persistent behavior and have offered some interesting insights. Perhaps this is a valiant attempt by a protective male to defend his lady fair and future offspring from the would be vile attacks of vicious, marauding, vigilante robins. Perhaps... Or just maybe this poor chap is attempting to confront the aggressive reflections, taunting him from the sparkling clean, almost mirror like quality of my exterior windows. Yet another possibility is that this astute couple has, like us, chosen this meek but beautiful little corner of the world to call home and nest in and in so doing, he must man up, and guard his home-land from all enemies, foreign and domestic. Enter the Mikkelson family. Foreign? yes Domestic? jury is still out on that. Clearly all three scenarios are similar but it was really fun concocting new ways to say it. You can see that this intrepid visitor is scarring me can't you?

Mark has hosed off the excrement only to discover it is quickly replaced by more the next morning. We have attempted to approach the perpetrator after an attack only to see his tale in retreat. Mark, refusing to be outdone by this 12oz ball of red-breastedness, printed out lovely likenesses of a bald and a golden eagle. In an attempt to reclaim what we think is still our home and dignity, he has stationed these defenders at the kitchen and dining room windows.

If we sat a notch above the "red neck" definition, we do so no longer.

Sadly, now my husband is deeply invested and may also need some therapy!!!

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!