Four Calling Birds (Are Too Many) Trifecta Challenge Week #75

     "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?"
     "No clue."
     "Over twenty?"
     "Easily."
     "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.

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