It's going to the birds. All of it.
Again, like some demented clockwork, not orange, the bell rang at 11:56 pm, which was astoundingly similar to the prior nights. At the door was a new Lakeside Livery delivery person, complete with a stack of cartons at his sides.
The largest had lots holes, from which sounds of angry birds were emitted. It sounded like a bad argument where 150 people were arguning at high pitch and higher volume.
I signed the delivery receipt, and stuffed the copy emblazoned with Lakeside Livery at the top of the page, and absolutely no information about the sender on it. I crumpled it and stuffed it in my bathrobe pocket.
After wrestling the packages inside, and opening the first, I realized I now owned more birds. This time it was French chickens.
Well, hens. There were eggs in the bottom of the container, which was filled with straw. Three of the eggs had shifted during transit, leaving a gooey mess of straw and egg yolk. As I looked around for a towel or something, the tallest of the remaining boxes tipped over and another bird squeal split the air with bloodcurdling efficiency.
Who knew that partridges could be so loud?
I cut the cardboard away from the tree, and after ten minutes of struggle, got the little cage holding the partridge into the spare bedroom/office, and put one very irritated partridge into a large cage I'd gotten at the local dollar store so he'd have more room. Of course, with two other partridges inside, that cage was getting crowded. A cage rated for four parakeets is no match for three partridges.
As I walked back to the living room, my bare feet encountered something that was both crunchy and slimy at the same time. You guessed it. The newly liberated hens had thanked their liberator by laying two more eggs, and I'd just walked in them.
The third parcel held a cage with two doves inside.
I shooed all the birds into the spare bedroom, and managed to shut the door without more feathers flying. The lights were off, and I was off to clean my feet properly and to clean up the floor. Then I was ready for sleep, big time.
Yet, it was not to be. As I was just drying my foot, the doorbell rang again. This time, I got there in record time.
You guessed it. I had another delivery from Lakeside Livery. Chances were, with all the livestock in a "only cats allowed" building, it would be that Shetland pony I wanted when I was ten.
But no, it was four cartons. Four large cartons. I needed to find out who hated me, and birds generally, by sending me these gifts. And I use the term "gift" sarcastically.
I looked at the clipboard stuffed under my nose. Before I signed, I asked the major question I needed to have answered. "Who is sending me this stuff?"
Delivery person grunted. Literally. Not an "I don't know," or any communication of "I've got no idea."
Nope, not any of that. Just a grunt, "Unnnnh."
"I don't feel like signing this until you tell me who is sending all this stuff to me. Please, if you have any sense of decency, please just tell me."
Nothing. But this time, he pointed at a number in the column marked "Sender Code" I checked the carbon copy under the ticket I was signing, because the whole thing was apparently done in quadruplicate. I scrawled, delivery person yanked the pen from my hand, stuck it behind his hatless ear, and turned on his heel. At least I had memorized the number, but I needed to find a pen fast.
It was impossible to find a pen fast. I heard someone say, "You nitwit, the pen, the number is 12490211. 12490211, 12490211."
I was thinking "shut up" and other find phrases, and tried to remember the code. It wasn't working. In searching for the pen, which was clipped to a sheet with all my recent code number and password changes.
Finally I got a pen from my briefcase besid ethe door, and wrote down, 15496221.
Victory! I'd be able to contact Lakeside in the morning, and find out who was actually behind this.
It was getting bad.
The first box I opened had a tag on the top that read, "Collie Birds, None are named Lassie"
Okay. A gift giver with a sense of humor. I got the cage with the four Non-Lassies into the spare room which woke up all the feathered inhabitants, and the cacophony began again in earnest.
I tore open the tallest of the cardboard boxes, and inside was another pear tree, with a tiny cage holding an upset partridge. I threw the cardboard, which hit the pear tree that arrived only minutes earlier, knocking it to the ground. Pears went rolling all over the living room, and in the confusion, I stepped in one, then stepped in the egg that got away from me, right before I went to clean my foot off.
I didn't care.
It didn't matter if the egg was ground into my carpets. It didn't matter if I was knee deep in cracked eggs. I just needed to open the remaining two boxes.
As I suspected from the straw poking out of the one carton, I had another three hens. I couldn't care less if they were French or Spanish or Chinese. They were loud. They'd laid 7 eggs, none of which were broken. I took a few moments, grabbed a pan from the kitchen, and stuck all the eggs inside. The ones that really got my attention though were the two turtle doves, which were lobbying hard to be part of a certain Vice President's hunting party.
An hour later, all the boxes were broken down and put out for disposal.and recycling. The birds were all in the extra bedroom, the lights were off and it was only (Only!?!?) two am. As in Ack Emma.
All I needed now was an early morning raid courtesy of some demented zoning inspectors or my landlord pounding on the door about the noise.
I turned the stereo to play some soft music. I was hoping that something that sounded musically boring, like Mantovani, or even Manilow, would lull the noisy birds to sleep. I don't often admit I own such music, but any and all records, cds or tapes in that line of elevator like music were gifts. From people that don't know me, and couldn't care less about my real taste in music. (In case you are wondering, I'm a big fan of classical, romantic, and truly enjoy the sonata form performed by strings.)
Anyway, I had the number in my pocket, and after every creature inside my flat was where they belonged for the night, I set up the laptop and started to try a simple search of Lakeside Livery shipping records, if there were any tracking information available online.
Nothing.
Absolutely, positively nothing.
I leaned back against the pillows on my bed, closed my eyes for a moment and nodded off.
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