Good Friday

Good Friday is here, and it would not be our Kawaii household if big things were not happening. This story actually begins last November, when Compassionate Hydra bought a plastic bird feeder on sale for the noble sum of 15 crowns, declaring we would open a balcony restaurant for poor starving birds such as underfed tits, grumpy sparrows, and frozen blackbirds.

Along with the feeder she bought two sacks of seeds and a songbird atlas, so we could check off which greedy guests had visited our fine establishment. She personally installed the feeder on the balcony railing and even had to secure it in a very DIY fashion, because the price matched the quality and at the slightest movement the entire contents dumped out twice. We are still waiting to see whether a sunflower plantation will grow under our balcony or whether some creature already ate everything.

We had the feeder. On the living room windowsill we filled jars with leftover seed and placed the atlas by the window, ready for action.

Long story short, all of it remained untouched exactly until March 12, when Hydra had a full meltdown because for the ENTIRE WINTER not a single bird had come to peck at our buffet. She was tired of dusting five tubes of prepared grain and flipping sadly through the atlas in the evenings just to at least look at a singer bird on paper.

The Boy looked sympathetic and if he could, he would have bought some birds and discreetly tied them by their little legs to the feeder so the Girl could be happy that someone came to taste our menu. But not only would that be unethical, it is thankfully also unrealistic.

So Hydra threw the atlas into a little street book box, and we gradually scattered the seed into feeders around the neighborhood. We completely abandoned our balcony restaurant. Nobody rushed to remove it though, so it just stands there sadly like a monument to another brilliant Hydra idea.

Last week I went out to the balcony in the morning to chew a few sticks that the Boy and I had brought from the park the evening before. In the middle of the balcony I found what looked like a blueberry smashed into the floor in not a very appetizing state. I still planned to eat it, since it probably rolled out of the trash box we were supposed to take out.

Hydra spotted me through the glass. Before I could even stick out my tongue, she shoved her foot between me and the blueberry. Fun over. She picked it up, threw it in the trash, and said, “You little pig!” Then she wiped the floor with vinegar and a tissue and yelled at Traitor to take out the trash immediately or else. He went. He had seen my face and knew that if he did not go, he would spend two more hours cleaning and scrubbing the balcony.

This morning on Good Friday I walked to the balcony door, looked toward the feeder and there he was. A massive pterodactyl that looked nothing like the cute little birds Hydra had planned to host. He sat by the feeder like a giant turkey on a pole, practically blocking out the sunlight. From my perspective it looked like a solar eclipse caused by an enormous feathered beast.

I ran for the bipeds so they could witness the mutated starling. Ideally with pitchforks and torches. Maybe a demon-exorcism manual for Hydra, because this felt wrong.

They understood my panic and followed me to the balcony, where the gigantic chicken was still happily stuffing its face.

Hydra squinted without her glasses and asked, “Is that a little pigeon?”

The Boy vaguely replied, “Probably.”

She kept squinting but refused to step closer so she would not scare the beast. “He looks weird though. I cannot see well, but that beak is strange and he is very skinny. And he does not have those wing stripes, right?”

At the words “very skinny” I snorted so hard I fogged up the glass. The metal railing was bending under him from how skinny he was, and he could barely fit on the plastic perch. Skinny, sure. He was a dinosaur.

I raged behind the glass, demanding they open the door and let me handle some flight training. But Hydra pulled me away and said, “Let him eat in peace!”

We watched from a distance as he devoured everything, and with the confidence of a beginner ornithologist she declared, “That is definitely a turtle dove.”

The Boy, charmed by her uncertain expertise, replied, “Hmm… I did not know that. Where is our dinosaur atlas so we can check it off?”

Before she could explain she had thrown the atlas away in anger, we decided to give the dove privacy and vacated the entire apartment, going for a walk around the house.

“Stupid bird,” I thought during the third forced lap around the park instead of lying on the couch watching Hydra bake Easter bread. “I would chase him.” He would not flap fast enough.

When we returned home, the feeder restaurant was empty and the seed level had clearly dropped. The bipeds went to refill it. Hydra reached the feeder and suddenly yelled, “Oh no!”

I ran over to see. The floor under the feeder was covered in smashed blueberries. One after another.

And yes, in that moment Hydra realized that the previous blueberry had also been “pterodactyl poop” and not a blueberry at all.

I felt immense relief that I had not eaten it, and Hydra went to wash her hands three times just in case.

Let me tell you, if I did that during breakfast, I would get punishment bed for at least a week. And if this flying monster gets away with it, I am going on strike and moving in with Grandma.

So on Good Friday we were blessed with one properly large pile, and one thing is certain. This Easter we do not need to buy anything. Compared to what this beast produces, little lamb droppings would be a gentle stroll through a cherry orchard.

P.S. I am taking bets on how long our bird restaurant stays open before Hydra loses her mind over cleaning poop-blueberries. The Boy bets one week. I say three days. 😀