I'd like to apologize for anyone who saw me standing beside my car the other day, shrieking and cursing like a sailor.
The sad truth of the matter is, I never really expected to open the driver side door and have a small brown bird fly into my face and attempt to remove my eyes with its razor sharp beak.
My instant thought was not, “Oh my gosh, a bird has moved into my car and is defending its territory,” no. Instead, I instantly assumed it was some sort of supernatural, ghostly creature with dripping fangs and a huge capacity for evil. Like the Fort Kent Wendigo.
The Fort Kent Wendigo had possessed my car and was attempting to exact vengeance upon me.
Or worse? Maybe it was a bat.
So there was screaming and there was flailing and there were probably words which were unsuitable for any young ears. And for that, I do apologize.
My screams and flails sent the creature scurrying back into my car and I slammed the door, narrowly having survived what was nearly a fatal event, I'm sure.
After my heart stopped pounding and I caught my breath, I could see the bird panicking inside the car. It was beating its wings against the passenger side door, pooping—repeatedly—on my upholstery.
Seeing the perpetrator was just a bird, and a small one at that, my plans for calling for an exorcism—or Sam and Dean from the show Supernatural—faded and instead I started coming up with a new plan to save my car, before the upholstery was ruined forever.
This is another way the universe discriminates against single people, just for the record. Instead of being able to call a guy who hoped to impress me with his ability to deal with birds and, if there is anything good in this world, vicious and marauding spiders, I had to call my mom.
The conversation went like this:
Mom: Hello?
Me: Mom. Hi. How are you?
Mom: Good… getting ready for work.
Me: Awesome. Hey, so. There's a bird in my car?
Mom:… how do these things happen to you?
So after my mom finished laughing, she wished me luck and hung up on me, which was not altogether helpful.
Left on my own to deal with the bird, I decided my best course of action was to open all the doors and let nature take its course. Surely a bird, when given the option, would prefer not to live in my vehicle.
I opened the driver side door and then the passenger one, sending the bird scurrying for cover under my gas pedal.
I gave it some time, backing away and confident that the bird would gather up its courage and flee.
Then I noticed the silly creature was flaring its wings and letting its beak hang open, glaring at me like I was the one trespassing on its territory.
Some time, in the hour since I'd left my car, the bird had come to see it as its home.
This would just not do.
So at this point, I did what anyone would do. I scooped up some rocks and threw them at the bird, sending it fleeing.
My car once again my own, I spent the next half an hour scrubbing and disinfecting my leather seats, cursing some more – but quietly this time.
In the end, I learned some important lessons.
Mostly not to leave my sunroof open a crack, even on the hottest of days. Another attack like that, and I might not recover.
