Bird House

A bird flew into the house yesterday. Then another bird zoomed in after it. Fio had left the back door open to allow Bosco, Son's pug, to go in and out, but she didn't expect any visitors. Husband, whose mother had national standing in the Audubon Society's birdwatcher list, immediately identified the invaders as wrens, probably a mating pair--at least that's what the male was intent on.

Husband caught the female in a towel after a half-hour chase around the den, but the male was more difficult, soaring up to the second floor, then swooping downstairs again to perch picturesquely on the pan holder over the kitchen island, the frames of several paintings, the Christmas decor, and anywhere else he was unreachable. Two hours later, Husband still hadn't cornered him or chased him outside, despite Bosco Dog's best efforts--turns out he's an excellent pointer.

Fiorella wishes she could tell you the end of this tale, but she doesn't know what happened to her avian Lothario, whether he escaped out the still-open back door while Fio and Husband were taking a breather, or whether he's still lurking in the house somewhere, ready to take to flight the second they fall asleep, setting off all the security alarms.

The other option is that birdie gave himself a fatal blow to the head while trying to kamikaze through the dining room window, and his small, dead body is rotting behind the Javanese folding screen.