So I’m housesitting at Sally & Joe’s this weekend, and last night, Ian was here too. I was laying in bed, watching CSI, and he came in shooting a laser tag gun. He was allegedly testing it out for a work thing (he works with kids) but I have my doubts. I think he just wanted to play. So once he stopped shooting and falling into gun stances all around the room, I asked him if he had shut the garage door. He said yes.
Anyway, this morning I got up and walked into the living room. It was early, and so it was still dark, but I could see the outline of SOMETHING on the floor. GREAT. I turned on the kitchen light and saw that it was a giant bird’s wing. I knew exactly where it had come from – Joe ties some elaborate flies down in his office, and uses bird feathers in some of them. I picked up the wing and went downstairs, where, sure enough, the door to his office was wide open. I shut it and went back upstairs to feed the dog. I opened the door to the garage to get her food and what do you know, the door is WIDE OPEN. I knew Ian wasn’t up yet, so this must mean he did NOT, in fact, close the door the night before. I went and woke him up and I was like “Did you go into Joe’s office last night?” He said yeah. So I told him about the bird wing. Then I said “Also? You totally did NOT close the garage door last night.” And he said “Oops – good thing I’m not the housesitter”. Ha. Very funny. I had to go to work and I told him that under no circumstances was he to unlock any of the doors in the house. He could go out the side door when he left, which locks by itself. Because clearly he has a while before he can be trusted to lock up the house himself. Yeah. He’s 30.
The bird wing reminds me of an incident a couple of years ago when I was housesitting here and I pretty much killed one of their canaries. One of the birds was sick, and so Sally had him in one of the bedrooms with the door closed so he would be warmer. She said he might die, and if he did, that was ok. So I went in to check on him before I left for work and he was kind of listlessly sitting on his perch. When I got home that evening, I walked down the hall to check on him again, and to my absolute horror, the bedroom door was open. I went in, and the cage was knocked over, it was empty, and there was a spot on the carpet that looked suspiciously like blood. This is how my thought process went (oh, and if you know me BUT AT ALL, you know this isn't a SHORT thought process. Buckle in, party people):
Oh god. The cats got the bird. They’re just milling around, not meowing for food, and I swear they’re licking their chops. Shit. They ate the bird. Damn. Damn damn damn. They ATE! THE! BIRD!!! Wait, wait. There aren’t any feathers anywhere – if they ate the bird, there would have to be feathers somewhere. Ok, let’s be rational. Maybe the bird got away and is hiding in the house somewhere. Great. This house is not small. Look under everything. Call the bird. Curse the cats as they follow you around, watching in what you can only believe is amusement as you crawl all over the house. Stop and look closely at the cats’ mouths – you don’t see any blood, so the “bird as snack” scenario is looking less and less likely. Whew. But WHERE is that effing BIRD? Go downstairs and crawl around down there, looking under everything. Be followed by the cats, who are “pretending” to help. Why, WHY didn’t that door close all the way! Ok. You looked everywhere you possibly could. Go upstairs and vacuum up the spilled birdseed and think of how you’re going to explain this to Sally. Do you pretend that the bird died and you disposed of the body? Maybe. But further thought vetoes that idea. One, it would be out of character for me to dispose of the body. Two (and perhaps most importantly) what if the cats HID the bird, so that when their mom comes home, they could give her a “welcome home” gift. Yeah, Sally? Your bird died and I buried him in the compost pile. What? The cats brought him to you one morning? Hmmm. How DO I explain that. Uh, they must have dug him up from the compost pile when they NEVER GO OUTSIDE. This will never work. Plus, I’m a horrible liar and I hate lying. Ok. Go to bed (after carefully inspecting every inch to make sure there’s no oh, I don’t know, BIRDIE CORPSE in the bed with you) and think about it in the morning. Morning comes. You decide honesty is the best policy. Call Sally in Maine and tell her that you killed her bird. “No you didn’t,” she says “he was sick anyway.” Politely disagree and tell her that no, you’re pretty sure you and/or the cats killed the bird. Oh, and the icing on THAT cake is that you can’t find him. Ok then! Have fun in Maine! Go downstairs to watch t.v., and find the bird, ALIVE, sitting in the middle of the rug. Where, I might add, he totally was not the night before. Pick him up and put him back in his cage, and close the door. For real this time. Call Sally and tell her, oops! Ha ha! False alarm! The bird is not dead! Which may have been a premature call, as he died later that day. Poor guy.
Seriously. Who does stuff like that happen to? Oh right – me.