I am officially a blogger, it seems. Hubba Hubba's sister walked in this evening and asked if I had blogged about the bird. So, I'm going to blog about the bird.
I desperately wish I had pictures to show you, because I'm pretty sure they would speak volumes. At the very least, they'd be able to better convey to you the utter ridiculousness that was our home last evening. Sadly, the batteries in my camera chose yesterday to die. I went digging through the drawers and came up with 693 AAA batteries, but not enough AA batteries for my camera. Naturally.
It all began yesterday morning. There was a ton of snow that fell here, beginning Sunday evening. Now, when I say "ton", please understand that I'm referring to a Jersey ton. A ton of snow in The True North Strong and Free is a totally different thing. The snow we had here yesterday would not have closed schools in the TNSAF, or cancelled my worship team practice. Not that I didn't make the most of my new-found free time and waste an entire evening watching the worst Bachelor ever.
But I digress.
So, there was snow. A Jersey ton. Enough to send all the birds in a 2-mile radius to our house, looking for shelter. (It's the bird feeders. You know how you're more likely to find a hotel near a restaurant? Same concept.)
Well, four of them were successful. Yes, four. They made their way into our basement. Don't ask me how yet. I don't know.
Hubba Hubba's sister managed to shoo three of them up and out. (This is around the time I started looking for the camera. I should have remembered the video camera. That would have been even better.)
The fourth bird managed to elude my broom-wielding sister-in-law. So, we "forgot" about him for the day. I think we hoped he'd just find his way out the same way he came in. What we forgot to factor in was Chloe, our fierce fluff ball. She found Mr. Bird, and he made his way upstairs.
Now, by this point Hubba Hubba's mother had joined us for the evening. This is where it gets really interesting. There we were, three grown women chasing this poor bird around the house. The broom came back out. Doors were opened.
Skills were mocked.
As if my holding my hands out and sweetly asking Mr. Bird to come to me was any more ridiculous than Hubba Hubba's sister holding out the broom and asking Mr. Bird to hop on it.
Twice my sister-in-law had the bird in her hands. Twice he outsmarted her. We tried trapping him, shooing him, chasing him and throwing scarves over him. Wiggle Man found the whole process highly amusing. Hubba Hubba found it even funnier.
Twenty minutes later, the bird hopped out an open door.
At least Mr. Bird survived to tell the story to his birdie friends. Sometime I'll tell you about my mother-in-law's encounter with a bird one Christmas morning. That bird was not so lucky.
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