When we last left the poor dead bird, it was swinging forlornly from the lowest branches of the pine tree. Sometime Saturday, the bird was blown from the tree and now lays feet up in the grass next to the tree. I was really hoping that once the bird was freed nature or the neighbors would take care of it. I don’t have that kind of luck.
Since the bird has been preoccupying my thoughts I decided this morning was the morning I was going to bury it. So armed with Nolie’s yellow plastic shovel, a plastic Target bag, and a steely resolve soaked with coffee, I set out to put the poor thing to rest. The sun was shining and the neighbors had all already left for work.
Oh no! As I write this, there is some sort of gardening implement combing the area where the dead bird is. This is a Bobcat-type machine that features a wheel with big metal spikes of death trailing behind it. I am afraid to look. But I have to look.
I looked. The bird is still lying there in one piece. But it sounds like big metal spikes of doom is returning for round two. Argh! And he’s going around the pine trees this time.
I looked again, the bird is still there.
Anyway, I tried to bury it under the tree this morning, but my attempt left me on my knees yakking coffee in the grass. I’m not sure why I thought I’d have the cajones to bury a dead bird. As far as I know, I’ve never touched something that was dead. In fact, at any wake or funeral I’m generally the person the furthest from the body and closest to the door, the one with the barely disguised look of horror as I watch people kiss their loved ones goodbye for the last time.
Fuck, I need a Valium and a plan B.
Put the bird in a plastic bag and put it in the trashcan. That’s what I’d do.
what you need is an assistant…
Don’t rub it in Bam.
yes, ma’am. sorry.
that bird better there when i come over for BCB.
Dude, you actually yacked? I’ll come over and bury it. Hell, I’ll call it an internship.
When you say you need a valium and a plan B, are you talking about the prescribed drug Plan B? That would explain the yakking.
Call the health department – They’ll want to know if it had rabies & stuff.
AC, I meant like Plan A failed so now I am on to Plan B.
Yeah, call in the Feds, that thing might have had West Nile Virus or something.
Maybe you could write a short-story from the perspective of the dead bird as it hangs by a thread, as it waits on the ground for the spikes, as it contemplates the kind grrl that wants to do something but is weak in stomach. You’d win a pulitzer probably. Maybe even the nobel for literature. Kewl.