“I’m not a detective. I don’t have good observation skills. I often see clues indicating that abnormal things are occurring in my normally normal world, but my mind refuses to see them as the warning sign God intended them to be. Instead I choose to accept the first ridiculous account that pops into my Sherlock-less head to explain away what I see, and I wind up unawares. When I came home from work Tuesday night a series of events played out that should have warned me my evening would be interesting. Per usual, I ignored all the signs and ended my night stunned. Laughing, but stunned.

To set up the general atmosphere, the bottom of the sky dropped on Tuesday. All afternoon. There had already been almost five inches of rain on Monday, so Tuesday was really just more of the same. The gravel road was treacherous as I plucked my way home, arms gracefully balancing three bags of groceries and a floppy umbrella. I was desperately trying to keep my hair smooth for Bible study, but the weather was obviously against smooth hair so I let go of that lofty ambition. As soon as I entered the house my mood went from cranky to downright irascible. The first thing I saw were tiny paw prints all over the dining room table and the kitchen counter. More often than not I’m able to peacefully submit to the fact that the cat makes adventurous little forays onto furniture when it knows no one is in the house to reprimand him. But on this particular frizzy-haired Tuesday evening, I’d had it with the cat and its blatant disregard for my feelings on the issue. It didn’t help that right on the edge of the dining room table, closest to where I consume food, was a tuft of cat hair. This was the first piece of evidence that should have tipped me off to strangeness, but instead of seeing the perfect tuft of hair and thinking, “What could be the cause of this?” I saw the tuft of hair and thought, “Grrrrrrrrr cat.” I had just grumped my way to the bathroom to clean the mud off my feet when I heard some thumping noises. As soon as I finished cleaning up, I went back into the kitchen to investigate and found the cat sitting on top of the kitchen counter right next to the stove. It was too much. I snapped. It was unusual for the cat to commit this manner of crime right in front of me, but this second clue went totally unheeded in my rage. There was yelling and lunging (the details are a bit embarrassing, really), but he was too quick and darted downstairs before I was remotely within range. When I next saw him, I decided to communicate my displeasure by hissing at him. The result was fairly satisfactory and I started to feel better.

Even though we are dog people, I developed a special place in my heart for Mic when he watched over me through an illness.

As the evening progressed, the cat continued to act odd in the general area of the kitchen. I chalked it up to him processing my impressive hissing performance and put it out of my head. 

Directly above our stove is a small spice rack containing basic spices, olive oil, and apple cider vinegar. Each level of the rack is narrow and the spices are set up as far to the front as possible, leaving a small space between the spices and the wall. Earlier that day we were given ground cinnamon that I reached up to put away. Before I started shifting spices to make room for the cinnamon, the spice rack fluttered. Spice racks aren’t really known for fluttering, so I, of course, immediately panicked. I pride myself for not being a screamer, so I bottled all my panicky emotions inside and took one brave look at the empty space behind the spices. Instead of seeing the wooden rack, I saw a sleek black object, rather long. The scream sitting in my belly jolted as if to come out, but I swallowed it back down. Instead, heart pounding and slightly light-headed, I walked into the living room to calmly ask my husband to check if there was a bird on our spice rack. He laughed at me. And then he looked behind the oregano and saw a dirty black bird.

The rain, the bird, the cat, and the spice rack had created a perfect storm of weird. The bird, finding the weather to be a little too wet, flew into our dry house through the fireplace. Instead of finding a haven of peace, it found a cat. After an epic battle that raged through the living room, dining room, and kitchen (traces of which were found after the bird’s discovery), the bird found some solace on the spice rack. For mysterious reasons, the cat had not aggressively pursued its victim while it remained on the spice rack. Once the bird found this effective hiding spot, it thought it would top off all of our days by getting its head stuck behind the jar of apple cider vinegar.

At first, Brian was sure the bird was dead. While he was checking for life, I banished the dog and cat to the basement. After quickly dispatching that duty, I ran back into the living room to be as far from the bird as possible when Brian freed it. Sure enough, the bird was very much alive and started flapping around the house banging into things. Hard. Brian valiantly chased it while I, equally valiantly, ran around yelling choice words trying to avoid the winged monster coming at my head. Eventually, Brian was able to catch the bird in the laundry basket and we freed it with strict instructions to stay away from the chimney.

You have to look close, but the bird’s there!

For the next half hour, we frantically bleached the kitchen and did a thorough search of the floors and furniture for feathers and poop. There was an abundance of both. After that, I spent a good portion of the rest of the evening mulling two questions. Why am I a language surveyor, a job that requires impeccable observation skills, when I don’t notice the aftermath of a National Geographic battle waged for who-knows-how-long in my own living room? And for what possible reason did the cat not finish off the bird when it was such an easy kill? I don’t have an answer for the first question, but I am quite confident that the answer to the second is God’s intimate knowledge of me and what I can handle. Coming home to a dead, bloody bird on my stove may have broken me that day. Instead, it was all just a good laugh.”

So… guard dog? Sigh. I still don’t know.