No woodland creature is safe.

You know those scenes from all the Disney movies, where the cute little cartoon birds and bunnies flit and fly around the adorable princess, as she sings a pretty song about love? Yeah, that would never be me.

Not because I’m not a cartoon and couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket if I tried…. But because I have a way of inflicting horrific deaths upon cute and fuzzy critters.

Beyond the running over of bunnies and chipmunks with my car, I’ve had a hand in the deaths of other creatures, some of which the gruesome nature of said deaths provide much macabre fodder for late night laughs with friends. I mean, only if you’re a sicko. Or me.

I shall tell you some tales now. Are you ready?

We have a beautiful backyard, filled with fruit trees. Once, about 3 or 4 years back, a darling robin family decided to rear its young in my (small) pear tree. I would take my children and stand a good distance away and try to peek at the process of the teeny blue eggs hatching into featherless freaks and then growing into cute and fuzzy speckled robin chicks. That little nest was packed. Mama had laid five eggs. So five noisy, chirpy little chicks kept the parents extremely busy on the worm detail and poop removal.

This activity did not go unnoticed by my dog.

He took it upon himself to jump up and pull the nest down. I was rightly horrified and ran out yelling at him to get back. As the mama sat in the adjacent plum tree chirping her little heart out at my dog, I picked up the nest and placed it back in the crook of the branches. There, on the ground were four squirmy wide mouthed babies. I knew then and there that they may not make it, but I scooped them up and placed them back in the nest. But, wait. There were five eggs that had hatched. I scanned the grass, looking for the fifth, grimly wondering if the dog had managed to score a yummy snack, and as I took a step back, I felt a warm squish under my foot.

Oh no….. There, on the grass was baby bird number five. I’ll spare you the gory details, but I will tell you this. I have stepped in a lot of gross things in my life, but nothing matched the live, wiggly warmth of a featherless robin chick. Nothing.

One of the other impromptu deaths dealt by my hand came in town one morning, when I was bringing my son to pre-school. I had to use a side street that was half blocked off for some construction. With nowhere to turn, I saw a flock of pigeons in front of me.

Now they all walked away from my car, bobbing their beady eyed heads, but I just knew that one wasn’t that smart. Gosh, what a surprise, a dumb pigeon. As slow as I was going to make sure that stupid bird moved out of my way, it perhaps had a suicidal death wish in it’s pea sized brain that morning. There was no avoiding it. I clenched the steering wheel and announced to my son to hang on tight, Mama’s gonna run down a bird.

I popped that motherfucker like a feather-covered over-blown balloon with my front tire.

It even sounded like a balloon popping.

When I arrived at the school, I saw the tell tale evidence, sprayed along the driver’s door, blood and feathers were stuck everywhere.

My four year old son’s response? His exact word: “Cool!!!”

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