Dear Abby, or Dr. Phil, or Dr. Oz, or whoever it is still listens to this stuff: I’ve got a problem, and I don’t mean maybe. I know that in a world where National guardsmen in armored personnel carriers are deployed to the streets of many American down towns, and police helicopters swoop overhead at all hours, and even the president himself can’t walk across the street to a place of worship to read his Bible in peace, this may not seem like much. But it’s got me rattled, so hear me out.
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In my backyard there’s a mulberry tree. Actually it’s my neighbor’s tree, but it has grown so big so fast it hangs over the fence into my yard, all the way up against my second story bedroom window. Now the mulberry is a weed tree, nothing like the tame little “bush” of nursery rhyme fame. It produces a sticky sweet fruit that tends to ferment, and therein lies the problem. Not with the fruit itself, mind you. But with the birds that that flock to feast on them like alcoholics in a dive bar with no respect for social distancing.
After imbibing enough mulberry cocktail, the birds have gotten it into their pointy little heads that they can fly anywhere, at any speed, without proper use of turn signals. A significant portion of them even have taken to trying to fly through my bedroom window, at all hours. As you can imagine – what with the helicopters and the National Guard and all – I’m starting to feel like I’m under attack here.
The birds must have short memories, because they keep at it, day after day after day. A loud “Whomp,” an explosion of feathers, then they walk it off in the grass below. Only to fly up and return for Round Two. And Round Three. And so forth. The term “birdbrain” springs readily to mind. I don’t know why.
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All my Second Amendment friends recommend shooting them down with a 12-gauge. And I’d do it too if I didn’t have to open a window to get a decent shot. The hell with the neighbor – he can take cover for all I care. But what if one of these drunken fowl gets inside my house? I can’t go blasting the plaster off my own walls, now can I? And of course, beyond that, there are all these camo-clad guardsmen gadding about lately. The sound of a shotgun going off is sure to draw a crowd. And brother, I don’t mean birds either.
My dad had a favorite ploy I’ve thought of using. He had this very life-like fake owl he’d position up under the barn eaves to keep swallows from building nests. And as far as it went, it seemed to work. One thing, though: As far as I know, those swallows weren’t drunk. We also had an army of 20+ semi-feral barn cats as reinforcements. My guess is, the cats did an even better job keeping the bird and mouse populations in check than ceramic owls ever did. Even better than National Guardsmen? Maybe so.
Anyway, Dear Abby / Oz / Phil – what am I to do? Readers, feel free to chime in here too. I am open to any advice – good, bad, or indifferent. In times like these, we’ve all got to pitch in and not be afraid to think outside the box. Just don’t tell me to send them to AA, Dear Abby. There are certain lines even a birdbrain won’t cross.
I’d go with the old bird burp gun. I doubt any of the NG troops would find a really tall white guy walking around with a propane tank and mortar looking device. The neighbors might complain a little but the Green Police will likely show up first being that it’s not solar or wind powered. Good luck with your drunk birds. We had a crazy robin last year that liked attacking the back window repetitively. Either the urge to mate died off or he did. Darwin might have been right about that one.