If you read my last post, you know that I don't like birds. Like at all. I hate them. However, I don't want y'all to think that I'm completely heartless, so I'm gonna tell you a little story about when I tried to put my fears aside and help a little feathered demonic creature and why I don't do that anymore. Honestly, this is probably one of those "you just had to be there" stories, but who knows, hopefully, you'll enjoy it.
I don't remember exactly how long ago this was, but I do know that I wasn't in high school yet, so it was probably somewhere around 13-14 years ago. Wow, doing the math for that made me feel really old. At first, I was thinking maybe it was about ten years ago. Then I realized that that would've made me sixteen-years-old. Wow, that's crazy. Anyway, I was probably somewhere around thirteen. So, you know, old enough to be embarrassed if someone besides my mom had witnessed this, but not quite as embarrassed as I would've been if I were sixteen.
Anyway, let me set the scene. It was a Sunday evening and my mom and I were just getting home from church. I was wearing a dress and a pair of black dress shoes. Thankfully they weren't heels, but if you know me, you never would've assumed that they were. I mean, have you ever seen me walk in heels? No, you haven't, because it's not a pretty sight and I didn't want to subject you to that. You're welcome. I promise that this is relevant, even though it doesn't seem like it.
So we were just pulling into the driveway and my mom noticed that there was a little baby bird at the edge of a mud puddle at the end of our driveway. Against my better judgment, I told her that she should get it out of the puddle and put it back in a tree or something. She was as shocked as you probably are, but like I said, I'm not completely heartless, and I knew that if the bird stayed where it was, it would almost certainly be eaten by my neighbor's dog. I didn't want something like that weighing on my conscience. Notice that I didn't volunteer to do this myself though, I wasn't that nice. And if I were to get up the courage to help it, I definitely wouldn't have picked it up like my mom did. I might've knocked it across the road with a stick or something. Actually, that probably would've hurt it worse than the dog eating it. Oh well, guess it's a good thing I let her take care of it. Now even though it was technically my idea to save the creature, I still wasn't too excited about it. I was already scooting as close to the passenger side door as I could possibly get when she picked it up. She started talking about how cute it was. I replied that it wasn't cute and she better not let it fly into the van. To which she claimed that it couldn't fly and that "it's not gonna get you." Pause.
Y'all remember that Jeff Foxworthy bit where he's talking about the guy who got his nipple bitten off by a beaver? If not, you should watch it. I had to in order to refresh my memory and am now back after watching an hour and a half's worth of Jeff Foxworthy standup. Anyway, for the unlucky ones who haven't head this, he met a fan who's brother-in-law had his nipple bitten off by a beaver. He and his buddy had accidentally hit it with their truck and had gone to get it out of the ditch because they wanted to take it to the taxidermist. Now here's why this is pertinent to my story. In this bit, Jeff says "'look at it, it ain't cut up, or bloody, or nothin'.' And apparently 'nothin'' is the word that brings a beaver back to consciousness. And at that point, the animal lurched out and bit his nipple off."
Well in my story, apparently "get you" is the phrase that gives a sickly-looking bird the ability to fly, because, at that point, the animal lurched out, squawked it's battle cry, and flew right into the van. But not just into the van. It flew directly toward me and would've landed on my chest had I actually still been in the car at that point. Y'all, I ain't ever ran that fast. My mom said that it was like everything except me was in slow motion. She said that when she looked up, the car door was closing behind me and I was already standing on the front porch, which I'd estimate is probably about 25 yards from where we were parked.
Disclaimer: I'm terrible at estimating, so by "about 25 yards" I mean it could be anywhere between 10 and 50, or more. I don't know. The only thing I know about yards is that there are a hundred of 'em in a football field and that this was probably less than half of a football field. Maybe I'll measure it so I can tell you for sure.
Disclaimer 2: No I won't, I live in Texas and it's hot out there.
Mama managed to get the little demon out of the van and disposed of it. It was only after this that I made my way back to the car and we pulled around the house and into the garage. When we walked into the living room, my grandpa was coming back from the front door. He and my grandma said they thought they heard a herd of kids running through the front yard, but by the time he got to the door, there was nobody there. Once my mom finally stopped laughing, we told them that it was actually just me running across the yard at a pace that probably would've beaten Usain Bolt in a sprint. While wearing dress shoes, remember.
So there it is, the first and last time I tried to help a bird. They've just had to fend for themselves since then.
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