"YOU WILL BE PLEASED TO KNOW," I informed my husband via text, "That I believe I have identified That Bird."
"I am so proud of you, honey," he said as he walked in the door
that night. "I can't believe it. How many online birdsongs did
you have to listen to?"
"So now what?"
"I've already scoped out my sniper's nest. But first I need to
make myself a gilly suit."
"I know how to make a gilly suit," he volunteered, deliberately
oblivious to the hilarity that should have ensued at the mental image of a
woman in a gilly suit sitting in a bay window on the second floor of a
converted whorehouse in California.
That Bird first became known to me during a bout of insomnia. As I lay there in the predawn light,
listening to its monotonous ‘twoo-whoo’
that surely had to stop sometime soon, surely, it will stop, I had no idea at
the time that this bird was to become a nemesis. Later, I charitably thought it must have just
been a transient bird, and that of course
it would move on and we could also move on to other irritants, like the
neighbor’s tetchy car alarm or the midnight crazies of our cat, Feral Fawcett.
One week later, I elbowed my husband in the ribs. “That bird,” I announced, “is an asshole.”
“It’ll quiet down,” he said sleepily, no doubt mentally wishing his wife
would do the same.
Six weeks later that dream has also died, for both of us.
The offender has been (in theory) identified, the plans have been laid,
the doors of retribution kicked wide as a practice maneuver for when I find the
bird and kick it in the tailfeathers.
I’m on to you, some-type-of-dove. For
now, I have your real name. It’s
Latin. And it’s Assholus Maximus. Until we meet on the playing field…oh, yes. Until then.