Now that could mean anything. Anything. From another terrorist attack to a death in the family to Rush Limbaugh moving in next door.
Not the words a gal really wants to hear two seconds after getting out of bed.
But, luckily, the tragedy wasn't that I'd have to watch Rush wobble out to his car every day or listen to him pontificate over the fence.
It was the attack sometime last night on the blue bird house. With the blue bird babies inside. Poor house was just ripped off its moorings. We went out and sort of carefully put it to right and did a patch job with about ten yards of duct tape.
I don't know. I saw Papa Bluebird sitting on top of it later, but haven't seen him go in or out. (Of course I've spent much of the day in the front yard, digging a flower bed along the side walk and planting plants and spreading straw and completely pissing off my knee and back.)
Then I was accused of being a slumlord and using shoddy building practices. I was told to expect a little bird attorney to be knocking on the door. (What type of bird would be an attorney, I wonder? Mockingbirds? Jays?)
Hmph. There was no lease signed. Those bluebirds were squatters!
I hope the babies are okay and managed to hide at the bottom of the box. It it a bluebird approved house, supposedly deep enough that predators (Rocky Raccoon most likely) can't reach to the bottom. After the horrible fledgling accident last year (snake got a baby), they'll never come back to my yard!
Another tragedy is that our main computer has some sort of spybot thingie or something (aren't you impressed with my computer-ese skills?) and is undergoing a search and destroy mission right now. So I don't know if there are kitten pictures on this laptop. I shall look.