We have recently been battling a family of barn swallows that decided to take up residence on our front porch. We endured the chittering from the front porch until their babies were old enough to fly. Then, we took action and knocked down the nest…in an effort to persuade them to find other lodgings. Not to be so easily deterred, they started to rebuild the nest again. My wife had been pushed to the breaking point. “It’s our house, not theirs, and I won’t be attacked every time I step out my front door.” And the war began.
It started with some impressive aerial maneuvers on the birds’ parts as they dipped and dodged the aquatic flak that I was sending up from the water hose. I tried several times to shoot them from the sky, but their fighters were always faster and more maneuverable. Then the birds launched a counter attack. As soon as the hose was safely back in the garage, a whole squadron of Sparrow S-54 fighters dive-bombed me, keeping in perfect formation as one after another took turns swooping at my head.
While I attacked the birds directly, my wife attacked their repeated attempts to rebuild the nest with a stool and a broom. This went on for several weeks with neither side backing down, until finally my wife covered the spot on the stone where they like to build their nest with a bleach-soaked rag. The nest attempts stopped, but the birds grew even more hostile.
In an attempt to show their disapproval of our interference with natural order and instinct, the birds launched a massive counter-attack. SR-18 Spy birds were sent in at night to plaster the ‘Welcome’ mat, front porch, front door, and an innocent garden elf statue with poop. G-10 Guerilla birds were seen blatantly pooping on the mailbox in broad daylight while shouting taunts at us through the window. But most disturbing of all was the squadron of B-17 Bomber Sparrows that could be seen flying in slow formation high above our yard.
“Target acquired. The stupid human has stepped foot outside the protection of the fortified nest. On my mark, men. Don’t drop until I do. We’ll only have one chance at this, so let’s make every shot count. Three, two, one…drop! Bombs away!”
“What’s that high-pitched, whistling sound?” I ask as I walk to the mailbox to get the mail. Too late I look up to see the threat. Splat! Splat, splat, splat, splat…splat! “What the crap! It’s in my hair, and my eye, and uck! my mouth. That’s disgusting. I’ll get you, you B-17 Bomber Sparrows!” I scream, shaking the flaming fist of fury at the retreating squadron. “If it’s the last thing I do…right after I wash this crap out of my hair!”
