*Insert Canned Sitcom Laughter Here*

I’m going to attempt to tell y’all a funny story. My stories are generally funnier when I write them drunk, but I don’t have any wine, so y’all are going to have to live through sober story time. My precious Fuzzy Wiener loathes birds more than even I do. She thinks she’s a bird dog. Lemme tell you a story:

This couch-licking Fuzzy Wiener right here.

The Viking and I went to a movie and dinner, and when we got back the Fuzzy Wiener was desperate to be let out. If she had been a human she would have been hopping around. When she was coming back, she noticed a bird had gotten trapped on our back porch. The only open part of our porch is the front. The sides are glass, and the back is, obviously, the back part of our house. The bird just kept flying in back and forth zig-zags, never quite getting under the eave to freedom. Fuzzy Wiener lost her shit and started chasing the bird because she could have somehow have done something from 10 inches off the ground.

So

A bird is flying around in a panic. This long short dog is chasing under it, barking and causing chaos. I’m yelling at it from the back door trying to encourage it to fly the proper way and hiding behind our glass door anytime it came near. (I told myself I was trying to pretend I was trying to keep it out of the house, but I’m terrified of birds, especially when they are in flight.) Nothing productive was going to happen here.

I did what any hero would do: I put aside my terror and grabbed a broom.

Now we have one panicked bird blindly hurtling itself in all of the wrong directions, a ten inch tall terror out for blood, and one very large, mildly freaking out woman yelling and waving a broom. The bird kept flying and thumping it’s head on the ceiling of our porch. I was afraid it would knock itself out and the Fuzzy Wiener would attack it TO DEATH once it was on the ground. I kept picturing myself having to pry a bloody bird corpse from her jaw. I’ve had to do it before.

Oh, have I mentioned she thinks she’s a bird dog? Have I also mentioned she’s managed to kill birds before? Don’t ask me how she gets them, but one summer we finally had to make the “no bird corpses in the house” rule. She would drop them at the back door so I could throw them away before I got bird gore on my carpet… again.

ANYWAY, with all my yelling and dog barking, the bird finally flew under the eave thingy and out to freedom, hopefully without much brain damage. The Fuzzy Wiener stared at a corner of the porch for several minutes waiting for another bird to spawn, I guess.

Yep. Also, The Viking watched it all through our cameras. Sometimes my life feels like it is being written by sitcom rules, like when the well pump died right after I had shampooed and soaped up. *Insert canned sitcom laughter here*