Bad old puddy tat!

"I tawt I taw a puddy tat! I did! I did taw a puddy tat! Bad old puddy tat!" --Tweety Pie

Unbeknownst to me, Sylvester Gypsy apparently brought me a gift this morning.

I was in the kitchen feeding breakfast to Blessings # 2, 4, & 5, while alternately calling upstairs for B#s 1&3 to “hurry your buns and come downstairs!” The radio was playing; dishes were clanking in the sink; monkeys were chattering.

I could hear B#3 calling to me, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying with all the kitchen noise. Assuming he was informing me that he was now awake and out of bed, I told him to get dressed and come eat before we had to leave for school.

Soon Beloved Husband, who on most mornings would have been long gone and working already, hollers to me, as well.

BH: Who left the door open?!
Monkey Moma: What door?
BH: The outside door!
MM: There aren’t any doors open.
BH: Why is there a bird in the house?!
MM: What bird? Where?
BH: In the window! That stinkin’ cat must’ve brought it in! (insert his audible grunt of frustration here) I’ve got to get to work!

Oh lovely. (insert my silent grunt of frustration here) Lifeless, bloody, ruffled-feather remains of a little tweety. Which window? Whose bedroom was this bird in? Why was a dead bird in a window?

Nope, not the case. Tweety was definitely in a window, but Tweety was also quite alive. Alive in a very HIGH window.

A ladder, two fishing nets, a tall husband, and several minutes later, the bird was captured and released back into nature. (This was also a good opportunity to rescue the frisbee and sparkly purple bracelet that were in the window adorning my twiggy orchids.)

And, lucky me, the gift just kept on giving.

Tweety’s poop was on the wall.

It seems that B#3 was trying to tell me that he saw a bird in the house.

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