One of the problems with those full view storm doors is that birds think they are open and try to fly through them.
Stunned birds -- and sometimes, dead ones.
Jim, our vet friends, says, "Birds aren't smart. They hit it hard, and they go all stupid. They lie there and think ... wham! My beak. My beak. My feet. My feet. What was that? It smarts. It hurts...I don't think I can move! I'm dead. Argh. Argh. and then something startles them, they freak out, and they are surprised that they can fly. Birds aren't smart."
Flying into the doors or windows happens all the time here at my house because we have one full view door on the front and one on the back.
We also have nine thousand bird feeders -- so it's like we are begging for extreme, bird air sports.
This morning, as I am having my coffee, THWACK! A bird hits the front door. Then I hear Keats pawing the door like the house is on fire.
I go to the front door, and "sure nuff," a bird liess on the door mat, breathing, but opening and closing its eyes.
Keats is all puffed up and making this little snorting noise.
Me: No, Keats. It's not fair to get a bird when its down.
Keats: Stupid human. Stupid rules. Stupid ethics. There are no rules. Bird is down. Free chow. Bird meat. Bird meat. Hot Wings! Bird down. Easy prey. Let me at it.
Me: You don't even go outside. You have never eaten a bird.
Keats: Have too! Have too! Have too!
Me: Oh, look, it's so scared.
Keats: Even better. Scared birds. Stupid Birds! Not smart enough to be scared.
Me: I'm gonna get the camera and take a picture.
Keats: Argh. You can't eat a picture. I need this bird. Birrrrd. My bird. Birrrdd.
Aside: For some reason, this reminds me of Flannery O'Connor.
While I go to get the camera and tell David he'll need to save the bird, Tallulah comes to see what the fuss is all about. Tallulah spends her mornings in the back of the house with David, who tirelessly throws her paper wads, and then while he's getting dressed, she likes to chase his belt.
Tallulah circles the foyer, sits down for a moment, and tries to see where Keats is looking.
Keats: My bird. My bird. My bird.
Tallulah: That bird ain't moving.
Keats: My bird. My house. My front door. My bird. Back off, Red.
Tallulah: *yawns* It ain't moving. What fun is that?
Keats: Bird fun. Bird fun. Eat.
Tallulah: Not interested. I want it to move. Move. Bird. Move.
Keats: *hisses* Go chase a paper wad, dummy.
Tallulah walks off.
David agrees to rescue the bird before he leaves for work, but he tells me that when the bird is ready, it will move.
Me: What about Stumpy and Lumpy?
Me: The cats across the street who trespass over here, hang out around the bird feeders, hoping for a score, mock Keats through the door for being an inside cat, and spray on our porch. They are Cat Thugs.
David: What? How do you know their names?
Me: I don't; Keats and I call them that since one of them limps and the other needs to be on the Biggest Loser. They are always in the yard. We know. We're here.
David: You need to go back to teaching.
Me: Bite your tongue. I'm saving the world, one bird at a time.
David: Okay. Okay. I'll rescue the bird.
So, while Keats kept watch, David walked around to the front, with his bird handling gloves, and tried to lift the bird from the porch (you know out of the way of Stumpy and Lumpy). Startled by David's touch, it flitted like a drunk around the porch and then flew into the woods.
Keats: Man. Humans are so lame. That was my bird. My bird.
Keats: I gotta throw up. *licks paws* I think I saw them wash the bathroom rugs today. *heads for bathroom*