Don't ask me what day of the week it is because I DON'T KNOW.
What? Who? Huh?
Four-day weekends seriously screw with my little brain, especially when the four-day weekend is so full of living that it seems impossible that it all happened. It's a really very good problem to have, especially because some of that living involved these little guys.
These itty bitty birds were born June 26th in a tiny little nest right outside the front door of our house. I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that birds don't communicate with one another because it should be common knowledge that a peeping tom lives in our house. Any yard is safer than ours.
Unless you think it's fun to watch your babies get tormented by a giant human and her camera phone. In that case, carry on, birds.
It only took two days to figure out that these particular baby birds were fast-tracking their way to grown-up status.
In fact, they went from quarter-sized to silver dollar-sized in less than 36 hours.
Which probably means I should have been prepared.
But I wasn't.
I walked out the front door to take a photo of the little guys on July 6th and maybe-sort of-definitely caused this.
And I do mean CAUSED.
I should know by now that baby birds will go from totally chill about my presence to HOLY FREAKIN LARGE HUMAN RUUUUUUUUUN in an instant. I should, but I keep forgetting. So, when I opened up the door and pulled back the branch of the rose bush to say hi to the baby birds, they MORE than said "hi."
They went nuts.
In what can best be described as explosion of feathers and bird poop, three tiny birds launched themselves out of that nest so fast that none of us had any idea what to do. One little bird flew to the right and somehow found its way into a tree.
Which, cool. That's a good place for a little bird.
Another of the little birds flew across the street. That's even better because if you leave my yard, I leave you alone. So long, little bird!
But the third one. THE THIRD ONE.
After pooping an impressive trail all across the front yard, it found its way to the side of our house. It fluttered and it flew and it eventually decided it would try to go back to the rose bush.
But that's not a rose bush because WALL.
That goofy little bird either is really bad at retracing its route or is blind or is just plain stupid because it launched itself directly at a wall. PLOP. BIRDY FALL DOWN AND GO BOOM.
Fortunately, it seemed no worse for the wear, other than the fact that it landed in a tiny little crevice between our basement window and the box around that window. When I say "tiny" I mean TINY, for what it's worth. That gap is maybe 1/2 inch wide.
Little bird.
Little brain.
Little hole.
All of this adds up to one unsure human. I stood there trying to figure out if that bird needed help or not for a good ten minutes. Was it brain damaged? Did it have a brain because, you know, WALL? Should I leave it alone? Should I help? WHAT DO I DO?
I asked the husband what to do. His bachelor's degree is in zoology, so OF COURSE he is the resident animal expert. If an animal poops, that's who I call. That bird pooped A LOT, so it was time for that expensive college education to serve a purpose.
He who didn't understand that these things require much thought gave the situation exactly NO thought. He reached down, grabbed the bird, and stuck it in a rose bush.
HOW IS IT THAT WAS SO EASY?
If I had decided to help the bird, I would have needed a lot of equipment. Gloves, a bucket, possibly a net, and definitely some protective eyewear for both me and the bird. Safety first, people.
But noooooo. The husband used his bare hands and absolutely no protective eyewear.
And nothing bad happened.
I'm confused by this. I had brain damage just from watching the birds explode out of the nest. Surely touching one of them can only lead to bad things.
Or not.
Anyway, I think the moral of the story is that four-day weekends are pretty fantastic, especially if you want to stalk some feathered friends who are determined to give you a heart attack.