Kimberlee K.

Since I think we’re all in the mood for a good laugh, and ironically my sister and I were just talking about this, I thought I’d reshare this post from March of 2015.

It was a “throwback” story even then, but I think it still holds up as one of the more entertaining days in our house. A day that, when talking about it now, we need only say, “the bird.”

—

“Hey Kim, it’s me….just uh, give me a call when you get this.”

She didn’t sound worried or upset, but there was something in my mom’s tone that made me call her from the parking lot at work.

“Hey mom, just got your message, what’s up?”

“Hi hun, I’m just about to walk into a meeting but I wanted to check in on your day. Also, do you have any ideas for dinner? Oh, and one more thing…Natalee called me in a panic earlier, apparently a bird flew in the house and she didn’t know what to do so uh…she locked it in your room before she left for school. See you later!”

*click*

Come again?

When I pull up to the house, my brother is waving goodbye to his friend and grabbing the newspaper from the driveway. I explain to him the situation, and after he stops joking about all the feathers and feces sure to be scattered around my room, he offers to help.

Once inside, I look down the hall at my closed bedroom door. I can almost hear my sister slamming it shut in horror, and feel the fear she exhaled into the phone, telling my mom that a condor had entered the premises looking for blood.

I open the bedroom door slowly and step in. To any innocent bystander, it was just the average room of a college student. Dirty clothes, an unmade bed, oversized picture collages covering every inch of the wall. I liked my room. But as I looked at it now—through hunter’s eyes—suddenly every crevice became a burrow, every corner a cave, every inch potential enemy territory.

We decide to start with the bed.

My comforter sits in a puddle on the sheets, creating the perfect nesting place for our feathered nemesis. So, with a deep breath and a firm grip on the teal cotton, I yank it “are you impressed your silverware didn’t even move” style, but it only reveals a sock I lost a few days ago.

Next, we go for the closet.

With my back against one mirrored sliding door, I push the other wide open, letting it slam against the wall. Then I switch. Still no bird.

Suddenly, a wave of panic overtakes me. What if it’s dead somewhere? What if this jerk is on his way to the afterlife while snuggled under my grey hoodie or hiding in a shoe?!

I walk towards my desk and see feathers scattered all over the carpet. The smattering gives little indication of the bird’s current location, but—judging by their size—suggest we are dealing with the ever ferocious, infinitely terrifying robin.

I laugh slightly, thinking of the beast my sister created in her brain when she saw the bird enter the house. If I texted her right now, she’d probably say it had the wingspan of Shaq.

“Maybe it’s behind your bed,” my brother says in a tone attempting to be smug but is laced with worry.

We take a beat, both aware that he’s probably right, and start to kneel down to take hold of the bed frame. Before we can take our positions however, tweets and flaps fill the air and the bird reveals itself. My brother screams and cowers. I scream and cower. We both run out of the room.

The bird flies out behind us, mimicking our jaunt to freedom (which was OBVIOUSLY the plan) and finds itself a new hiding place: behind the printer.

My brother runs for the broom while I hide behind the recliner and begin shouting, “BIRD,” threateningly in the direction of the computer.

Suddenly, the bird takes flight once again, and we cheer as it heads towards the back door. Unfortunately, stress has obviously stripped the geezer of his depth perception and he hits the ceiling, changes course, and heads into the kitchen, eventually landing on the counter next to the bananas.

“Quick! Open the kitchen door!”

My brother runs into the backyard, sneaking across the grass like it is covered in lasers, ducking beneath the windowsill so as not to give away his position.

He appears behind the bird and we both begin to lurk, inching towards each other, sandwiching the bird. We stare at the bird like it’s a ticking bomb that we need to difuse in order to save our family, but each of our steps gets slower, heavier, shakier.

But then, as if suddenly bored of the game, the bird flies out the back door like he’s done it a thousand times.

We cheer and high five, wishing him good riddance, slowly coming to terms with all the shrieks that had just taken place. Then I get a text from my sister: “Are you still at work? An eagle flew into our house today and I did the only thing I could think of…”

Really? The only thing?