Guess who's coming to dinner

As I was preparing to put a chicken in the oven I noticed through the kitchen window that my younger two were carrying something in from outside. I met them at the back door and demanded to know, “What is that?”

But, before they could answer, I noticed, in complete horror, that it appeared to be something that was looking rather lifeless.

“This is the kitchen,” I announced, alarmed. “We don’t bring dead things into our kitchen!”

“That’s dead!” insisted my son, pointing at the chicken I was preparing for dinner. “This is a bird, too,” he continued, “and it’s really not dead!”

I looked down at the motionless creature and he continued, “It just flew into the window and has a concussion, like I did that one time when I accidentally shot myself with my slingshot.”

I shook my head and pointed to the adjacent room saying, “Just take it out of the kitchen and into the mud room, and I’ll get a shoe box for it to recover in.” I was certain that the only use the poor creature would ever have for a box would be for its burial. I tried not to think about all the deadly bird viruses they must have been exposed to. I ransacked my closet looking for something that could house the poor thing, but how could I be expected to think of anything else when any number of antibiotic resistant bacterium could be in my kitchen, at this very moment, with my youngest two children hovering dangerously over them like obedient hosts.

As I walked back to meet them my daughter said, “I think you’re right, Mommy. It is dead.”

I thought so, too, but said, “Maybe it’s not, Sweetie.” While I carefully picked it up and put it into the box with some paper towels.

As I was securing the top my son said excitedly, “Wait Mom, I think I heard something!”

My daughter grabbed the lid, but we could all see that the bird hadn’t moved. They both dropped their heads to their chests in disappointment.

“Go wash your hands,” I said gingerly. “With soap and hot water and Daddy will take care of the bird later.”

They nodded glumly and then left me there staring down at the poor creature trying to make sure that it didn’t have lice.

My husband came through the back door, “Oh, no,” he said. “What happened?”

“The kids found it outside and brought it home as a pet.”

“It’s a very well behaved pet,” he remarked putting his hands on his hips.

“It’s playing dead.”

“I can see that,” he nodded. “It’s good at it, but they might find this one’s behavior a little too predictable.”

“It’s definitely not as lively as that frog they rescued from the swimming pool that one time,” I agreed. “A frog hopping down the hall can be pretty lively.”

“And, it’s not as exciting as a jar of bugs,” my husband pointed out.

“Which one?” I asked throwing my hands out in recognition to the dozens of bug jars I had seen through the years.

“The ones racing to freedom after being accidentally dropped.”

“Oh, yes,” I suddenly recalled, having obviously blacked out that memory. “Those ones were a lot less predictable than this new pet.” We smiled at each other a little forlorn over our current situation.

That evening at the dinner table our little group was a solemn one. We ate mostly in silence and as we were finishing up I said to my daughter, “Sweetie, do you still have the shoe box lid? I couldn’t find it.”

“Yes,” she answered. “I put some holes in it so the birdie could breathe.”

“Good idea,” I said with a nod of my head.

“That’s crazy,” snarled my oldest son. “That bird is really not okay you guys.”

He dropped his head down to sneak a peek at an incoming text on his cell phone but my husband held his hand out to confiscate the device, because this was not permitted at the table and my son knew it. With all eyes on him he sunk down low into his seat disgruntled, and, as he did, we could all see that directly behind him was the bird perched on the back of the sofa looking a lot healthier.

My younger two jumped up from the table completely out of control, startling the poor creature and it took off flying unsteadily down the hallway.

My oldest son’s jaw dropped in disbelief as my daughter ran to get her butterfly net. My husband put his arm around me; both of us much more content now that things were once again back to normal.