Birds don't belong, ever.

Tonight was a milestone in Tricia Scully history. No dad, I’m not pregnant, but wouldn’t that be fun news right now? Even better. I’ve realized where my obsession with cats came from.

It all started long ago, when my parents raised me next to a cat named Walter. He was by far my best bad omen of a friend, the cat that set the precedence for all others in my life: all black and cool as hell. He was classy, the classiest of cats one could say. Being raised next to this fine feline, it was hard to take a liking to any other sorts; dogs seemed dumb and sloppy to me, snakes and newts were boring, fish died way too easily, and birds were annoying. Alfred Hitchcock spoiled birds for me too when I was home from school watching old TV shows and movies one unfortunate afternoon.

It didn’t stop there with the birds though- I remember a friend of mine’s father had a bird fetish and raised dozens of them in his basement. I won’t comment on that, but I will say that whenever I went over to their house, we’d look at the birds, watch her dad feed them, and maybe have one sit on our hands until it pooped and we were done. I was never really into this pastime, but as a guest I smiled and secretly harbored my hatred of feathered things (ok actually I like boas, they’re pretty, but they have nothing to do with birds really, just Broadway and little girls’ dreams of one day being beautiful under bright lights).

Later in life, I encountered more birds. My ex-step-mother has a bird she calls Squeaky. The little rat's still alive unfortunately. She would encourage me to hold it, but every time I did the stupid thing would bite me or crap on me. Thanks Squeaky. I would lie in bed, wishing for the little darling to escape one day from its cage and run straight into a wall. Evil cat thoughts…

Next bird episode: grandma stories. I’m blessed with an Irish family that embellishes everything by nature. My grandma was on a beach one time for a vacation of some sorts, probably in Florida, and she was apparently shat on by a passing bird. As stories go in my family, it couldn’t have been a simple and isolated unfortunate event, it was way more than a fly-by-dropping, it was a “shit-fest” and the birds where maliciously attacking. That’s a strike four for birdy, don’t mess with the fam.

My turn. Tonight was a special evening. I wore my fancy brown pants, my leather shoes, a nice top, and I even popped the collar on my jacket for flair. My host my mom Renee took me to see a play, a one-(wo)man comedy about growing old and growing wide. I was pretty excited to see this little number, and so was Renee. We got there a little too early, so we had to wait outside for a while. We were standing outside, and I was leaning against the building, when I felt a sudden drop of wetness on my head. Then I heard the subtle “coo” of city-pigeons. Merde. And it was in fact, shit. I, like my dear grandmother before me, had been targeted and hit by the malicious little bastards. I couldn’t do anything but laugh hysterically for a few minutes; I just can’t adequately express my emotions in quick bursts to the French yet, so laughing is all I’ve got. Or silence. You can’t stay silent with bird crap on your head though, that’s just bizarre. After the play, I was trying to formulate sentences in my head about how much I hate birds, when my limited vocabulary steered me towards saying “I hate birds, that’s why I love cats”. An image of a cat with a dead bird in its mouth immediately popped into my head, a scene I’m too familiar with from my cats when I was growing up. That’s when I realized that my hatred for birds has but strengthened my love for cats.