To help out my dear friends, Sharon and Aaron on their 11th wedding anniversary, I told them I would come over this afternoon, whether they were home or not, to hang “scare tape” in their yard.
Scare tape is mylar ribbon that repels predatory birds by reflecting sunlight, thus scaring them off. When well-hung in a yard, it serves the dual purpose of festooning your patio as you and your guests sit on the veranda sipping lemonade, while, simultaneously warning birds of prey to “stay off my property.”
The reason for The Hanging of The Tape was due to an unfortunate and tragic event last week. Bucky the chicken was abducted by a mean, old hawk.
All who had met and gotten to know Bucky were quite shocked and saddened by the news of her untimely and sudden demise. As chickens go, and I haven’t met many, what Bucky lacked in stature, she more than made up for in personality and moxie.
Our friend, Roberta, had a surplus of scare tape in her garage after a recent avian experience of her own having to do with a persistent bird trying to commit a “B & E.”*
Sharon, Roberta, and I spent a recent afternoon hanging scare tape in the yard in an attempt to prevent future carnage. It was a solemn affair, as we were all still reeling from the sudden loss of Bucky, may she rest in peace.
A moment of silence for Bucky, please.
I arrived in the yard today, as promised, after yoga practice. I had forgotten my boots, so I slipped on a pair of shoes from “Sharon’s Outdoor Walking Amongst Backyard Crap Collection,” which, by the way, I think the Kardashian sisters should consider adding to their line of shoes at Dash, their store in New York.
I snipped the ribbon and tied it along the fishing line that Sharon had hung with care in a perfect grid only an artist of her caliber could conceive. (She also created the cartoon of my family for my blog, so check that out!)
As I am often reminded, I am short. Thankfully there was a step-stool available for my convenience so that I could tie the ribbon to the fishing line.
As I backed off the step ladder, I lost my balance (shocking, I know,) and fell butt-first into a kiddie pool frequented by the ducks in residence. Luckily, no ducks were harmed in this piece of non-fiction.
As I do on nearly a daily basis, I just sat there, laughing out loud. I was slightly upset that no one witnessed my magnificent backwards swan dive, but profoundly relieved that I had chosen to drive my car today, and not Richard’s.
So, Sharon, this should explain why your waterlogged shoes are up on the glass table under the pergola, and, the obvious lack of additional scare tape hanging in your yard.
I tried to continue the task at hand, but began to feel squishy, and not in a good way. I piled up the reusable grocery bags I keep in my car, and then placed my sweatshirt on top of them to keep my contaminated derrière from soiling the interior of my car.
And, I want you to know that I recently had my physical and am up to date on all my shots, so hopefully your fowl will not succumb to my foul.
I also hope I did not contract the quack.
I have showered, am boiling my clothes, and toying with the idea of taking another shower. I am a big believer in no crap left behind.
So, please enjoy your anniversary. I will come back another day to hang more tape when I’m feeling less flighty.
In the meantime, every two hours, Richard is checking me for signs of:
1. Foul mood (there’s always a possibility of that, duck crap, or no duck crap)
2. The uncontrollable urge to scratch at the ground with my feet
3. Brooding (see #1)
4. Excessive preening
5. Unusually daffy behavior (again, always a possibility)
6. Strutting (my stuff)
7. Finding me asleep with my head turned toward my back
8. An uncomfortable feeling of being cooped up
9. Involuntary arm flapping
10. Smacking him on the head, shouting, “Goose,” and running away.
*Beaking and entering
LOL! So punny, you quack me up!
Good thing you didn’t come with me because you’d have wet your pants from laughing, so between the two of us, we’d have had a long, squishy ride home, even though we’re only 5 minutes away!
Just cannot believe what an incredible ability you have to write with such clever humor. Love it!
Really, Mom? You hatched me!
Boy, you really ducked up this time !!!
Once a cluckz, always a cluckz!
What a good friend you are!
May Bucky rest in peace.
Thanks for another great story.
I know this will sound strange, Carol, but I love doing things like raking the hay and watching the chickens come running over to stomp it down again. Apparently, they are a little anal about their hay. But, the truth is, I just love hanging out with those chicks!
so glad you survived and i believe there are antibiotics to treat the quack, should you now come down with a case of this. rip bucky.
Beth K, you are a quack up! Thanks for being a loyal reader and commenter! So far the only fowl-related symptom I’ve noticed is an increased desire to scratch in the mud with bare feet, but it’s only a slightly increased desire to do something I already like to do. Richard now only checks me for symptoms every three hours. You are very kind to mention poor Bucky. She will be missed by many, as she touched (and crapped on) so many people.
You will need to “B then E” * prior to getting into my car…
* “Bleach, then Enter”
Isn’t that protocol whether covered in duck feces or not?
I am sad to see my original comment didn’t get posted. I wrote it with damp eyes from laughing so much, so maybe I did something wrong. I love this piece. It’s personal for me, and it’s so great that you immortalized Lil Bucky, of blessed memory, oliva sholom, as it were. I love the shoe collection part and all your possible symptoms. Very sorry to have missed out on the image of you vs the duck pond, although a video version is looping through my head after reading this. Oddly enough, I found the empty spool of tape, and dozens of fluttering lengths of it newly hung by the coop door, in front of the kiddie pool, which means we have elves, which is pretty good news as long as they don’t have a taste for poultry.
My heart goes out to you, Sharon. Bucky really stood out from the flock.
I tried to find your original comment, but couldn’t. Maybe that mean, old hawk took your comment, too.
I finished stringing one roll of tape, squishy or not, but then decided I should go home and clean up before I developed duck-poop folliculitis. After scratching my way through several bouts of “hot tub folliculitis,*” and chigger bites over the past few years, I knew that while my heart said, “Stay and finish the job,” my skin was saying, “Yes, it would be great if you could stay and help your friends, but I am not going to be able to tolerate much more of this and you will be very, very sorry, and very very itchy.”
*Dear Medical Community: “Is ‘Hot Tub Folliculitis’ the best name you could come up with to diagnose an allergic response to hot tub water? And this is coming from a person who has managed to contract ‘hoof and mouth disease’ several times. Just wondering.”
Clucking hilarious! Only a true friend would slog through chicken poop solo on a Saturday afternoon. Somewhere in the compost heap Bucky is smiling… if that is physiologically possible.