Things I killed in the month of July

Doesn’t that sound like a cheery title? I wish I could tell you that I really have nothing to report; that this headline was simply contrived to capture your attention and entice you to continue reading the worthless and unrelated crap that I have posted below it, but ALAS! It is not so. I am a serial killer and I must "make a clean breast," which is what the Thesaurus suggested I use to replace the word “confess.” Clever Thesaurus!

It all started on the drive home from Hershey, Pennsylvania (motto: “Not nearly as charming as you hoped it would be!”) after a particularly lame Dave Matthews show. I assure you that the show itself, you know, with the singing and the instruments and the sweating and the wafting pot smoke, wasn’t the lame part. No no no, the lame part was the first, second and third row center audience members who remained seated as if we were being treated to an encore presentation of Sesame Street on Ice rather than a freaking rock band. During the two-hour drive home we made a stop for gas and caffeine, but even a 64 oz. coffee wasn’t enough to keep Dave from getting sloppy at the wheel, so with about 45 minutes of driving time left, we pulled over and switched places. Dave proudly assumed the oft unappreciated role of Scan Button Engineer. And I, not five minutes later, having taken the wheel being both alert AND cautious, drove us right over a rabbit. Actually, I drove us right over its head. Front AND back wheels. Huzzah!

I took that one well. I actually think I was more upset about the way my husband was pointing and laughing at me than I was about the furry carnage we left in our wake. But then things went a wee bit downhill. Because the next victim of my senseless butchery? Kind of maybe died at the mercy of my own bare feet. From experience I now know that killing something with one of your own extremities tends to stick with you a bit longer than when you murder with, say, the aid of 3500 pounds of Volkswagen Passat. To experience matchless remorse, it’s crucial to have that warm body to warm body contact. Which I did! Because I STEPPED ON A BABY BIRD AND SQUISHED ITS GUTS OUT. Literally. As in, its internal organs shot right out its back end.

I know, totally disgusting. As well as horrible and dreadful and atrocious. I felt awful. And things were about to get even worse, because there were two other baby birds who had fallen out of the same nest. I now felt personally responsible for saving them, perhaps to make up for mashing their sibling into the ground with my size 10s. A quick check with Google told me I needed to get them back into their nest so their mother would reattend to them within the hour. However, said mother had some real shoddy nest-building skills, and shortly thereafter, the nest fell completely out of the tree. Back to Google, which told me I should now try to place the nest back into the tree somewhere close to where it fell out so that the mother would have no trouble finding it. The nest was starting to fall apart (damn inferior robin craftsmanship), so I stuffed it into a clear plastic strawberry container and had Dave lash it to the tree with some plastic ties. We replaced the two birds and stepped back to admire our handiwork, and then we gave each other a high-five.

Oh, who am I kidding. Dave was totally pissed that I had demanded that he come home from work just to save two stupid birds and denied me the high-five. Also because he was embarrassed that the whole neighborhood was watching me try to give him a high-five. High-fives are SO NOT COOL. You heard it here first.

So there I was, my good karma of saving two birds kind of equaling out my bad karma (dead rabbit and bird, like you need the reminder). I refrained from checking on the birds so as not to get their dumb-as-a-brick mother all riled up, but I couldn’t help thinking about them that night when a really bad thunderstorm came through. The next day after work, Dave and I went out to take a peek, and do you know what? Do you know what awful tragedy belied those birds? They didn’t die because their mother never found them or never fed them or because a cat climbed up that tree and ate their heads off.

Nope!

THEY DROWNED.

IN A TREE.

In a plastic strawberry container.

That I put them in.

That subsequently filled with rainwater and had no drainage capabilities.

I told this story to my friend Jason, and his advice, though true, was really annoying and not the least bit sympathetic. “That’s like the first rule anytime you catch wildlife,” he told me. “You poke holes in what you catch them in.” He continued to berate me throughout the rest of his email. “Can you imagine what was going through those birds minds? ‘Here we survive our entire nest falling out of the tree and now we’re going to drown because we’re strapped in and the rains are coming!’” Comments like that make it so hard for me to believe that Jason is still single. Such sensitivity!

So July's official body count stands at four. And that's if you don't include the hanging plant that expired during our vacation or the very lethargic horsefly who I honestly thought would get away. Here's to a better August and harmony with nature! As long as nature doesn't get in my way.

Comments

[carissa]

This is very sad, and I'm sure I would be completely traumatized if any one of these things had happened to me. But the way you wrote about it, I couldn't help but laugh.