It started with “thwack!”, then another “thwack!”, followed by “thwack, thwack, thwack!” “Howard!” screamed my wife, although it wasn’t necessary as we were already sitting on a couch across from each other chatting to my son who had popped in for a quick visit. “There’s a bird in the kitchen! Get it out!”
By this time, the dogs were delirious with excitement, and squealing with the delight of those who smelled blood. The “thwacks!” were getting more hysterical, and in the chaos, I was being commanded to remove a germ infested (and stupid) pigeon who had found its way into the kitchen. But that insisted that the only way out was through a solid pane of glass.
I’m good at a few things. Pigeon removal isn’t one of them. I consider them to be flying rats. And whereas as a person of faith, I know that G-d must have had a plan when He created them, I’m reasonably confident that He regrets His decision.
The screams and chaos induced an immediate fight-or-flight response in me. “We have to move.” I said out loud. “Start packing. We’re out of here.” The solution was simple. But my wife wasn’t having it. She looked at me in horror, but said nothing. There was no need. It was clear that this was a watershed moment.
I was being asked to slay the beast. And, apparently, moving houses wasn’t an option.
My son, although an adult, made no offer to assist and had managed to make himself practically invisible on the couch. He was clearly not going to help in my time of need, and I was very much on my own. It was one of my loneliest moments. And in what must have been an epiphany, I realised that the mountain of heroism is indeed a solitary place.
The “thwacks!” along with the barking of the hounds startled me back. I grabbed a pillow from next to me from the couch, and marched with calm purpose to the kitchen, where the dogs and stupid bird were engaged in some sort of primal duel.
Although afraid, I was fuelled by adrenaline and managed to open the nearest window as much as I could, called for the couch sitters to come and get the dogs, and slowly, with the cushion (so as not to hurt the damn thing), slid the pigeon to the exit. It was having none of it, and insisted on returning to the glass panel that would never, no matter how many times it dramatically flung itself against it, provide an escape route.
Armed with a pillow (which not ironically was filled with down) and a disposable tin-foil “bakkie” I had found en-route to battle, I succeeded in setting it free, where, without so much as a glance back in gratitude, it flew off to its next home invasion.
With the bird gone, the dogs were quiet, and the house retuned to blissful silence. Until, clearly not impressed by my selfless, swift, and brave action, my wife asked, “What am I meant to do with the cushion now?”
Marriages, not unlike warfare, can be complicated.
Sometimes real heroes don’t wear capes. They simply grab a down-filled cushion upholstered in Hertex fabric.
