Come Home To Roost

I heard it first at the crack of dawn. I was in the laundry room fishing a clean shirt out of the basket when I heard a gentle scrabbling noise, like tiny claws against metal. I froze, trying to place the sound as it echoed up and across the metal cubes. There it was again, up high in the corner. I leaned over the folding table, and listened intently, my ear tilted towards the ceiling. A soft whirring sound, like someone shuffling a deck of worn cards, echoed through the room. This time I had it, but to be certain I pulled myself onto the dryer, as silently as a ninja, and crouched there with my head near the ceiling. A tiny chirp rewarded my patience, and as I climbed off my dryer perch, I swore until the paint peeled off the wall.

Damned nesting birds in the damn dryer vent.

Oh, the spring sparrows love the dryer vent. It’s got a tiny roof over the opening to protect the little family from the elements. Warm air from the house seeps through the vent to ease the evening chill. Gentle southern breezes cool the nest during the heat of the day. Tufts of old lint that escaped the trap and got caught on the flashing near the hole make a nest lining so soft it’s like the mother bird’s breast.

And to top it all off, there’s a bird feeder and a freshly dug flower bed within fifteen feet. I might as well put out a sign saying Hotel, Free Dinner Buffet and Continental Breakfast. Early Bird Special.

The word has probably spread from generation to generation of the feathered fiends that I won’t move a nest that’s gotten past the initial pile of stick level. I just can’t do it. It seems so mean spirited. I know they’re just sparrows. But it doesn’t matter.

I know their presence means I can’t use the side door of my own house after the eggs are laid, because the parents, the little three ounce demons, will attack me to protect the nest. If you listen closely, the outraged avian screaming sounds exactly like someone shouting “For Harry, and Saint George!” They don’t care that I’m ten billion times bigger than they are. They just know the Egg Must Be Protected.

Finally, I know it means I’m going to be hanging my laundry to dry until Junior is fledged and crapping on my husband’s car, because to use my dryer would mean blasting damp heat over tiny birds. I believe in very little, but one of the little things I believe is that you are just about as valuable as the value you assign to the weak and the helpless.

All this flashed through my mind, but after the shower and the first hit of caffeine, I started to wonder. I check the vent weekly every spring, looking for tell tale twigs and bits of yarn. I may be a wimp when it comes to displacing nests and families, but I love my dryer, too, and two springs of hanging socks over shower rods was plenty. I usually catch the little creatures a few sticks into the process. And I just ran the dryer three days ago, there shouldn’t have been time for a nest to take hold, let alone a chance for Mama Sparrow to sit there chirping at the ungodly hour of my awakening.

So I went out to my car, tossed in the laptop, and then I sat there watching the vent. The sparrows sat on my gutter making conversation, carefully not looking at their nesting site. A few aimless circles were flown to distract the casual observer. After a furtive glance at my car, and a brief stop at the bird feeder, the larger sparrow picked up a long piece of dry grass and flew into the sheltered vent… next to the dryer vent.

That would be the stove exhaust vent, I thought. I guess the humans will just have to eat at restaurants until the nest is abandoned. It’ll be a sacrifice, not having to do dishes or stand over a hot stove after a long day at work, but I suppose we’ll get through it somehow.