The Fiendish Hellbird of the House of Stiefvater
Regular readers will know that Lover, Thing 1, Thing 2, and my car Loki just moved. We are now in the new House of Stiefvater, which is located just miles away from where I was born thirty years and several dozen hometowns ago. It’s all very thrilling. Pretty much everything about New House of Stiefvater is delightful. For starters, this is the first house this particular Stiefvater has ever actually owned, I went a little power mad. Ten years of rentals meant that I had grown wary of planting flowers or vegetables, lest I miss them when I left. It meant that I contemplated every wall hanging for weeks, trying to decide if it was worth the hole I would have to spackle and paint over.
But now, this house was OURS. And I went a little power-mad. I planted things.
I planted peppers and tomatoes.
I dug about 40,000 holes in the yard and put things in them. And then I started banging nails into walls.
Lover even put up a sign at the end of our driveway, announcing to the world that this was a House of Strangeness. Basically, it’s all pretty idyllic in the new House of Stiefvater. Except for one thing.
Some of you may be looking at this and saying, why, that is not a Hellbird. That is a male Eastern Towhee. You would be wrong. Every morning, as soon as the sun raises one eyebrow over the horizon, the Fiendish Hellbird of the House of Stiefvater begins his assault.
It’s hard to tell the purpose of this battle. Lover and I initially thought that the Fiendish Hellbird might be attacking his own reflection, but after a few hours/ days/ weeks of observation, it’s become apparent that the Fiendish Hellbird doesn’t look before he throws himself at the glass. I’ve decided instead that it may be based on some sort of point system where the Hellbird achieves a point for every new body part he manages to smash against a glass surface. If this is the case, the Hellbird wins. He so wins. He has no body parts left unsmashed.
I feel as if this futile fervor should cause his mate concern, but she merely sits on the fountain and cleans herself as the Fiendish Hellbird dashes his brains silly. Moreover, he disregards all of my attempts to scare him from the backyard. Unconcerned by my presence, he continues flinging himself with joyful abandon. And after the Hellbird has finished his morning routine, he attaches himself to a branch and then drops to the ground on his head with no apparent concern for his own safety.
I have decided that Fiendish Hellbird is a frat boy reincarnated.
The question is what to do about him? It seems callous to acknowledge that our deepest concern is being woken by the sound of the Hellbird’s skull on our windows, but as the Hellbird seems to have no interest in his own self-preservation, I’m not sure what’s left to save but our sleep.
Lover hit the Internet, looking for wisdom (I can hear you laughing from here), and got a few suggestions. They included placing stickers on our windows, replacing our windows with stained glass, placing spikes on our window sills, and taping paper over our windows.
These are not suggestions. They are formalized insanity! Unbelievably, the Internet had failed us. And the Hellbird has failed to destroy himself through repeated head injury, although that bird is certainly not going to Harvard any time soon. So we persist under the tyranny of the Fiendish Hellbird, a blemish on the otherwise halcyon House of Stiefvater.
I suppose that into every life, a little rain must fall.
Rain, plus feathers.