I was perusing websites on Jungian psychology—OK. I was looking at porn—about 9:00 several nights ago when I heard an unusual noise behind me. I looked around but saw nothing odd. It must be coming from outside, I thought, and I returned to the website “Conservative Politicians, Animals, and Lingerie.”
How had the animals been trained to pose so seductively in Victoria’s Secret attire? I wondered. I was less puzzled, however, to see the Republican men, all senators and congressmen, in identical outfits and the same poses. It made sense, though, I thought, considering their hypocritical history.
The strange sound continued. Which neighbor is making that noise at this hour? I asked myself. But I did not investigate. The thumping continued until I turned the lights out and went to bed with the image of a certain turtle-like red state senator in a red bra and panty set sodomizing a donkey clad in a blue negligee. The unfamiliar noise stopped.
As daylight dawned the next morning, I discovered our night watchman standing outside my windows staring at them. He saw me and pointed several feet to my left. I looked and heard the noise again.
Oh, no, I moaned to myself. A bird’s trapped between the window and my curtain. It’s hopping along the window ledge trying to get out. I pushed the curtain against the glass pane hoping to block the bird and force him back to an exposed part of the ledge where I could wave it toward the door. It didn’t work. Then I remembered I had moved my priceless Fabergé egg collection from that ledge the morning before and set it on the outdoor patio table. Just in the nick of time, I thought. I had done this so the delicate collector items could be dusted by what I hoped would be an overnight breeze. Oh shit, I realized. We had a windstorm with torrential rains during the night. I couldn’t dwell on that. My meandering thoughts returned to the immediate problem, the bird in my casita.
“Come, baby,” I said. “We have to get you out of here. Come.” It flittered up and over the curtain wall I had formed. It didn’t seem to understand the word “come.” But why would it? We are in Mexico. It probably only speaks Spanish, I theorized.
How was I going to get that poor bird out of my house without hurting it? It certainly was stressed enough from its countless collisions with the clear window, the muffled sound I had heard the night before. I had to work quickly and gently. I grabbed from the kitchen the largest pot and lid I had and shook the curtain in such a way the bird fled to the corner where the window was exposed. After a few unsuccessful clanging attempts, I trapped the tiny gray-brown bird against the window and, I thought, inside the pot. But I was wrong. I had only trapped his torso in the pot. His head was protruding from the rim, looking at me with an expression that pled, “Don’t hurt me, Wingless One.”
I felt I had not pressed hard enough against the window to hurt the fragile fowl. I shimmied the pot over his head, let him settle in the pot’s empty space, and quickly covered it with the lid. He was inside and he was moving. I hadn’t broken his neck.
“As if he hasn’t enough stress,” I thought and dashed out the front door and onto the patio and removed the lid. The dainty little bird flew off, apparently unharmed. It didn’t even notice the remnants of my Fabergé egg collection.
The entire event had lasted no more than a minute or two, not enough time for me to name my winged temporary roommate. But I was not certain if the bird was male or female. So I decided that had I had time and it was female, I would have named her Lady Bird Johnson after the USA’s former first lady. Had it been a male bird, it would have been named after former professional basketball great Larry Bird.
But then I wondered what the bird would have named me. After all, I had saved its life. My Savior, would be nice, I thought. Or My Hero. Jesus? Buddah? Allah? Or, I considered, if it were a gay male bird, Barbra.