Shoot the Bird?

Dear Bird outside our window,

I'm trying to figure out how to say this nicely.

Here goes.

We downright despise you.

That early morning squealing is worse than any alarm clock.

Persistent

Rhythmic

You are an obnoxious neighbor, far worse than the drunken college students that pooped on our sand box lid or the man-lady with the man-wallet who had a dog that barked in our ears all night.

To whom do we complain? Can you call 911 on a bird because he's a trumpeting butt head?

Oh no.

Your tiny fluffy frame is above the law. To God alone can we moan and groan and beg for mercy at 5 a.m.

How terribly rude of you to assume that your eager embrace of the morning is shared by everyone.

That terrible noise chirping from your bird throat makes me chant, half asleep, half awake, "Stupid, stupid, stupid. I hate nature." Your horrible noise causes me to sleepily kick Aaron out of the bed saying, "Go...go...please go make it stop. Shoot it or cut down that tree...do something...please."

Bully bird, you look innocent, tiny, and frail, but we know you're laughing, intoxicated with power as you cause a grown man wearing nothing but his pajamas and his disheveled sleeping hair to come outside and hurl a stick across the front yard into your lair of a nest.

What must our actual people neighbors think? Who cares. This is war.

You fly away, but then you come right back.

Start your wicked song.

We get up, starting our day a little peeved because we've been beaten, yet again, another morning, by a small, annoying, feathered foe.

Annoyed and sleepy,

The Parents Hendrick

p.s. Three of the four Hendrick boys have sling shots. "Shoot to kill". My exact instructions. Just sayin.