Birds of a Feather, Don’t Always Know What the Hell They’re Doing!

He snuck in through the doggie door in the middle of the day. I didn’t hear him until he smacked, head first, into a window. Poor little thing must be cold, now he is warm, but trapped, and a bit dizzy. He is reluctant to accept any help.

Wobbly from the window head bashing, he stays low to the ground and happens upon the fully stocked pantry, including fresh peanut butter, newly placed on ready mousetraps. Traps not meant for him, but his brain is slight and he knows not the danger. THWACK! No, no, no, no! SQUAWK! SQUAWK!

It was just a leg. There is still one left and they aren’t all that useful, as bird life goes anyway. Under his current state of duress, capture and release comes easy. His wife is peeping outside, calling to her hubs, scolding him with a firm, “I told you so!” They meet under a bush and share the harrowing tale. I assume that death is imminent and cry a little for him, his wife and the mice.

Alas, two days have passed since the first fated visit and he has come back for more, three times. Today he met with the same mousetrap misfortune, but only lost a few feathers. Okay bud, time for some TLC. Cardboard box respite, oh that sounds so lovely. Fresh cup of water, live beetles, warm home… not so bad.

Belly full, twisted, useless leg washed, body rested. Let’s try this again. His wife is silent now, likely given up on the glutton for punishment, can’t follow directions, never listens, husband. We’ll see what tomorrow brings, if there is a tomorrow. I removed the mousetraps, just to be safe. I expect, at the very least, that I will be cleaning up tiny, filthy, disease infested, mouse poo pellets.

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