When my husband and I bought our house, one of my favorite things about the property was the cutest little three-foot tall pine tree planted in the front yard. Seventeen years later, not so little or cute. The tree had grown into a behemoth and it was difficult to see around when backing out of the driveway. In addition to it being a safety concern blocking our vision of the road, it was becoming a bit of an eyesore because it was too big for the space. So, last fall, we cut it down and all was well again in our front yard.
Then spring came.
We noticed fresh bird poop appearing on our cars every single day. Not just a little splat here and there; long streams down the front doors of both sides of both cars in the driveway looking like giant claw marks. We would take the cars to the carwash only to have more poop appear within hours of returning home. Why were the birds so drawn to our cars? This had never been a problem in the past. Then it hit us.
The birds were angry because the tree was gone.
This was revenge poop.
My first thought was to get revenge on the birds by pooping on their cars but figured that would not be practical given that birds do not have cars. So, I went to the trusty Internet to find answers. Much to my amusement, the most common solution I found was, of course, pooping on the birds’ cars. After a good laugh, I continued searching for more practical methods of avian defecation deterrent.
The search became serious as I looked out the window and saw those bird bastards taking big dumps on our cars. We needed a solution and we needed it fast. With the help of other brave souls around the world who shared online how they had successfully fought similar battles, a list of supplies was made and an Amazon order was placed. Then we hunkered down in our house waiting for the requested artillery.
Oh, yes. This was war.
Two days later, we drove our poop splattered car to the post office to retrieve the smiling packages that were as giddy about seeing the contents inside as we were. We made it home and unboxed the first items while watching the birds cluelessly crapping on our cars. Just you wait, my pretties, I thought while preparing the weapons of mass deterrence.
Armed with sparkly pinwheels and a fake owl, my husband and I bravely made our way to the battlefield. The enemies had fled, but we had no idea how much time we had before the next bombing raid would commence.
The fake owl with the menacing stare was propped on the retaining wall by the trash cans. After a quick check for the enemies, sparkly pinwheels were placed every few feet on either side of the driveway. We managed to have a few moments to adjust them for optimum spinnage before the first dreaded sound came.
Chirp.
Chirp.
Run!
We made it back inside just in the nick of time. We peered out from the foxhole, I mean, through the kitchen window to see how effective round one would be. The first bird started to land on the car but was startled by the shimmering swirl of the pinwheels and flew away. A second swooped in, but quickly aborted its landing when it noticed the owl. Feeling like we had won the battle, we went about our business.
The next morning, we realized we had been lulled into a false sense of security. More poop. Both sides. Both cars. Apparently, the birds became brave overnight. It was time for round two — the big guns.
With great caution, we opened the last box. My brave, brave husband pulled the first item out of the package. I stifled a screech as chills of fear and disgust danced across my skin. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but alas the birds had pushed us to it. We had resorted to realistic rubber snakes. God help us all.
With as much stealth as possible, the rubber snakes were placed on the hoods of the cars. We retreated back to safety and watched. One bird approached and retreated. A second did the same. A third bird followed suit. This was looking promising! We left the snakes in place overnight.
The next day we woke to no new poop on the cars. Hooray! We had won! Victory was ours! We drove off to work that morning happy to have finally bested the birds.
Then I received the call at work. My son. My precious baby boy (okay, he’s fourteen and taller than me, but that’s not the point). He called to tell me a bird had, oh, Lord, help me, a bird had pooped on him. How did we not see this coming? How did we not see the birds would swoop so low as to poop on a child?
Knowing we could not subject our son to these horrors, we made the difficult decision. Heads hung low in defeat, we put away the rubber snakes, the owl, and the sparkly pinwheels. It was our waiving of the white flag. The birds could now poop as they please. We had lost the war.
But someday, birds, you will have car-equivalents. And I will have my revenge.