Me Versus the Sparrows, Round Two

Yeah... so... last week, I watched the sparrows fly into the stove exhaust vent. Those sparrows are completely safe, since I have no intention of turning on the stove to such an extent as to REQUIRE exhausting anything. I waxed lyrical about the tiny lives of sparrows.

Tonight, I saw a sparrow fly happily into the dryer vent.

Grumbling, I fetched out my stepladder, stuck my arm in the vent, and pulled out three twigs and a wad of my own hair I'd clearly pulled off the brush and thrown away.

I was so proud of myself for yet again foiling the sparrow before eggs could be laid that I sat outside enjoying the evening. And so I happened to be sitting there while the sparrow... flew back into the dryer vent.

I put the ladder back, banged on the siding to scare her out of the vent, and stuck my hand back in there. This time, my fingers brushed the tips of some straw, but I couldn't quite get to it.

This had become a Man Task. Man Tasks are things done by the man of the house at the request of the woman of the house. Duties include but are not limited to spider removal, anything to do with the yucky crawlspace under the house, and lifting things. I was not put on this earth to carry heavy things or touch things with more than four legs. I realize this is dreadfully retro of me, but I hold up my retro end of the bargain by doing laundry. Man Tasks are sporadic, but laundry is forever.

Anyway, my mate (aka Guy 1) came outside. He pulled out a few wispy bits of grass, and he too could not quite reach the last pieces. We trooped inside, and he unfastened the dryer vent tube. The silver snake was lowered into my waiting hands, and laid across the washer and dryer.

I reached in... and I pulled out a grass plug that was two feet long. TWO FEET. TWENTY FOUR INCHES. And the worst part was the bit at the top. Feathers from cardinals, from finches, from chickadees, from sparrows. Bits of newspaper, and more of my hair. Man, I gotta stop cleaning my brushes outside. A bit of embroidery thread, and some dried morning glory vine. And cuddled into all this softness and glory were five speckled eggs. I looked at my mate.

"Are these endangered birds?" he said sternly.

Well, no. We've been together for a few years now, so I could tell that the answer to my silent plea to put the nest back was not no, but hell no. I went outside with that ridiculously huge wad of grass and feathers, and I looked at the little cluster of eggs that would not hatch.

I learned a lot this evening, of course. One, the damn birds don't give up. Two, that was not a one season nest, that was several springs of effort. Every time I knocked loose a nest in progress I must have shoved straw into the tube, and eventually enough stuck in the ridged pipe to form a platform. So much for my vigilant nest patrol. Three, I can cancel that dryer repair appointment, because the dryer seems to work JUST FINE NOW. Four, turning the dryer on high (and running it for a straight hour, cursing at its poor performance) apparently doesn't actually hurt anything living in the freaking vent. This entire incident is funny on a level that I will no doubt recognize eventually.

But they were so small and perfect, and helpless. I felt like a heel, a schmuck, and guilty of a tremendous unfairness. I killed them. I didn't want to, I didn't mean to, I wouldn't have even turned on the dryer if I'd known they were there. They're just stupid sparrows, which made it worse, because there wasn't anyone to understand my mute apology as I stood outside in the cool spring evening.