Duck and Cover

Birds hate me! My entire life can be traced through incidents of birds dive-bombing me and then flying off into the distance with a smirk on their hideous little faces. Allow me to set forth evidence in four concise stories from my "crappy" life history.

As a child, I loved riding along with Dad on his gas delivery route. One day I was dressed up in my little Agland Coop coveralls as we pulled into the filling station at the butt crack of dawn. Dad jumped out of the truck, climbed to the top, and twisted open the hatch to fill his truck with gasoline for the first deliveries. I climbed out of the other side of the truck and stood there minding my own business when an evil robin dive-bombed me with a load of mulberry stained doo doo. I angrily yelled at the flying menace before bursting into inconsolable tears. Dad rushed to me saying, "Squirt, what's the matter?" I could only point at the purple blob covering my blue coveralls while incoherently mumbling about my hatred of all things flying. After finishing filling the truck, we crossed highway 42 and entered the Agland Coop gas station. Dad used the restroom to clean me up to the best of his ability, but my coveralls and day were stained by the experience.

Much later in life, I spent a summer working in the library at Mount Marty college. As I strolled toward the college library for my morning shift, the air was filled with the sweet scent of roses and the joyful sounds of students hustling to their morning classes. Suddenly, a gang of swallows swooped menacingly overhead, their agile bodies darting and gliding toward my head as they engaged in aerial combat, capturing my attention and sparking panic. I covered my head with my bag while making a run for the library door, before I felt an unexpected plop on the back of my shirt, unmistakably a bird's payload. The warm sun suddenly felt less inviting as I stood there, mortified, wondering about the old adage of bird poop bringing good luck. With a glare toward the sky and a shake of my head, I returned to my dorm to change my shirt. After spending a less than glamorous day in the library, I decided that a bird crapping on my back was certainly NOT good luck.

By my thirties, my hatred of birds had grown into a full-fledged phobia. One day, Ericka and I decided to hang out at the Henry Doorly Zoo. We had been there for quite a while before coming to the dreaded aviary. I hesitated at the entrance, but Ericka's infectious enthusiasm urged me forward, her excitement a potent force that could hardly be resisted. With vibrant tropical birds flitting overhead, their vivid feathers painting the air in stunning colors, I felt a surge of curiosity mingled with trepidation. Just as we ventured deeper into the lush, humid space surrounded by cascading vines and chirps of delight, a bold ibis with hate in his heart swooped down unexpectedly dropping bombs of poop toward my head. In a frantic attempt to shield myself, I slammed my face into Ericka's back, cracking the nose bar of my glasses. While I was left in an awkward tangle of surprise and bewilderment, Ericka burst into fits of laughter and apologies. Although Ericka found the moment hilarious, her joy not dampened by the unexpected misadventure, she agreed to immediately exit the aviary. To this day, she enjoys reminding me about this unforgettable tale of mayhem and misfortune.

My last tale of misfortune revolves around the same infamous aviary at the Henry Doorly Zoo. During a visit from my in-laws, Jim and Vivian, who came all the way from Wisconsin, we chose to experience one of Omaha's finest attractions for the day. Although Ericka and her parents urged me to partake in a tour of the aviary, a surge of anxiety engulfed me; the thought of being amidst flapping wings and sharp beaks felt utterly terrifying. Instead, I decided to remain at the food court, seeking comfort in the familiar, with a slice of pizza and a cool drink to soothe my nerves. Just as I began to unwind, relishing the laughter around me, an obnoxious pigeon, who perched above on the gazebo's eaves, dropped an unwelcome gift onto my head. My mind instantly shifted from unease to bewilderment—what were the odds? I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the moment. In a flurry of embarrassment, I rushed to the nearest sink, where the aftermath of my unwanted encounter unfolded. The smell was oddly pungent, and I splashed water onto my hair, trying to decipher whether the splatters were more of a blessing or a comedic curse.  As I scrubbed vigorously, starkly contrasting with the joy my loved ones were surely having just a few feet away in the aviary, I questioned why I hadn’t decided to join them. At that moment, I promised myself that next time, I would participate wholeheartedly, regardless of any potential bird droppings; after all, if a bird was going to poop on me, it may as well be an exotic one instead of a local pigeon with an evil disposition.

After years of unwelcome encounters with birds that seemed intent on taunting me, I have come to fully embrace my disdain for these feathered creatures. At first glance, birds might appear enchanting, with their vibrant plumage and melodious songs, yet beneath that charming exterior hides a devilish nature that I can no longer ignore. The memory of being pooped on by a robin while enjoying a day with Dad or having a pigeon ruin my day at the zoo, has soured my perception of these seemingly innocent beings. Their unpredictable behavior often leaves me on edge; the way they dart unexpectedly, their beady eyes filled with mischief, amplifies my distrust. It's a perplexing dichotomy—I can appreciate their beauty from a distance while simultaneously cursing their capriciousness. As I walk through parks, I now view birds not as charming creatures but as tricksters waiting for the perfect moment to ruin my day, and I wear my aversion like a badge of honor, having learned through experience not to underestimate their devilish antics.