I like birds, really. Birds are cute, especially when they’re small and finch-like, or singing sweet songs from their gilded cages, or what have you. I sat and stared at an irridescent green bird not too long ago, thrilled by its amazing color, and certain that if I went to grab my camera, it would fly away.
Birds, in my book, are cool.
Today, I took a break from writing a really long and boring article on logging (errors, not trees) and headed to the kitchen to get some coffee. My husband, who would probably call himself long-suffering, was sitting in the living room, watching some mindless show.
As I rounded the corner, I opened my mouth to say something when a BIG HORRIBLE BLACK BEAST dove at my head. I did what any sane and rational person would do.
I hit the floor.
I’ve always wondered how I’d react if someone burst into the local coffeeshop bearing an AK and screaming about rightful retribution. Would I panic? Freeze? Calmly sip my latte and ask deranged freakazoid to hush, please, I’m trying to read here?
Or, would I hit the floor?
I’ve never hit the floor before. I watch action movies where people fling themselves headlong across rooms, diving out of the way of speeding bullets or hurtling coffee cups, and think, “Ouch. Doesn’t that hurt?” Today, I found out - it doesn’t hurt.
Anyway, I apparently simply bellyflopped onto the floor, covering my head with my hands, shrieking incoherently and scattering the remains of my old coffee across the living room. It all happened so fast. I peeked out from between my fingers and saw the big black beast swoop madly around the room. I shrieked some more.
Finally, I could no longer hear the leathery flapping of what I was certain had to be a gigantic vampire bat. Instead, I heard the whooping, hacking sounds of my husband desperately trying to catch his breath. For you see, my husband, long suffering or otherwise, was laughing hysterically. Alternating between pounding his knee with his fast and grasping his chest and gripping the arms of the chair. Whooping with laughter.
Scully, my not-so-long suffering fox terrier, came racing in from outside to see what all the fuss was about. Seeing me still lying prone on the floor, she decided I must be dead, and she was finally free to do with me as she’d always pleased. She started raking at my hair (which had by now turned completely white) digging frantically away, either to lick me back to life or devour my eyeballs. I started shrieking some more, which only made her dig more enthusiastically, and only made my husband gasp harder for breath. Eventually, the humor of the situation struck me, and as I struggled to free myself from the deathgrip of the dog while simultaneously checking the vicinity for the killer bird and shooting my husband the most deadly glare I was capable of, I collapsed again, laughing hysterically at my own stupidity.
Apparently, the BIG BLACK HORRIBLE BEAST was a wayward pigeon that was so flabbergasted by my reaction that he just flew out of the house again.
At least now I know that I can reliably hit the floor if the need ever arises (and even if it doesn’t).
