I’m tired. Sleep eludes me for several reasons. For starters, Phoebe, my sweet PBGV, has lost her ever-loving mind. She’s going through yet another false pregnancy and spends most of her time in mourning because she believes she has misplaced her non-existent children. She’s willing to adopt, outside her species even. but the cats are having none of it. Though their rejection cuts her deep, she’s not willing to give up. How many times does someone have to pee in your bed before you realize you don’t belong together? I draw the line at one, but Phoebe is a
forgiving desperate soul. Two weeks ago, she was a normal dog. Anyone rising before 7:30am might qualify for a half-hearted tail wag. From her spot on the couch. Now she’s up all night digging a bed for her babies and despairing of ever having a four-legged lover. Spay your pets, people. Spay them.
Another obstacle to my shut-eye is the heat. The temperature outside is only in the 50s, which is just about perfect for opening the windows and letting the breeze blow. The only trouble with this plan is that our neighbor apparently has hot flashes. The hormonal state of another being doesn’t typically register on my radar unless they are attempting to nurse their squeaky hamburger in my living room. Or if their air conditioner sounds like a Boeing 747 and never stops running. I’m almost looking forward to weather hot enough to turn on my own AC so that I don’t have to listen to hers!
But the number one turd on my poop parade this morning was one of God’s own wild creatures. No, not Squish, but thanks for asking. I’m talking about a bird. I’ll say straight up that I am not a bird person. I can identify all the frogs in my area by call alone, but I wouldn’t know a pigeon from a partridge, so please don’t ask me what kind of bird it was. I don’t know. I don’t care. I just want it to shut up!
It started about 5:45am, and it has a fairly complex call that I might find moderately interesting at any time after my first
cup quart of coffee. The first part of its call is a “Yoo-hoo!” pitch, followed up by an echoing trill I would normally associate with Frogger making it to his lily pad on an Atari 2600. Over and over and over and over.
I’m pretty sure this is how species go extinct. The stupid bird is doing a great job of advertising its location, but the incessant nature of its call is leading this normally even-keeled animal-loving individual to wonder how said stupid-bird would taste with ketchup. And a side of rice. And maybe some steamed broccoli. I will let you know tomorrow.