Feathered Fiend

The morning was calm, quiet and cold. I had just returned from more than an hour of presentations, and was in the midst of going through the emails whilst having my morning coffee when the first sounds of the frantic flappings broke through. It came from the window, and all I could see was a dark shape moving behind the white blinds. It took me a while to realise that a not so little black bird had somehow flown into my office and was panicky because he couldn't get back out.

My office window is usually shut tight, but there was a thunderstorm yesterday evening and I suspect the strong winds somehow blew it open several inches.

I wanted to open the window wider to let the little fella out, but he got even more anxious when I approached. He flew out of the blinds into my office, and circled the room wildly once or twice. At this point, I had gotten panicky myself. I couldn't get near the window enough to open it, and I was terrified because I thought the black bird might swoop down and peck me. For a few seconds, I stood frozen and watched him fly right into the ceiling lights, circled the room again, and into the lights again, crying his high-pitched pain-stricken chirps. Then, I decided maybe if I held the door open, he would go through it.

So I did - I reached for the door and held it wide open. The little guy seemed a little settled by the distance I put between us. He perched on the blinds railing and paced left and right. I don't know if he would had responded had I whistled - I'd never know because I can't whistle. Damn. I tried to call out to him as best I could. I don't think he understood "Here, here, little bird!" or "This way out! (with exaggerated arm gestures)" because he totally ignored me.

Perhaps, I thought, I could get someone to usher my guest towards the door while I held it open. I took a look around, and miraculously, the corridor, usually bustling with noisy staff and students, was perfectly empty. It was so still I could probably hear the echoes of my breathing if I had better ears.

Well, fine, I thought, if I can't find help, I could probably place a chair at the doorway to keep it open while I myself do the ushering. I took a step towards the nearest chair, and the moment I moved, the unwelcome winged-intruder imagined impending danger and got instantly agitated. He flapped his wings, let out a few more of his tortured chirps and looked as if he would start flying madly around again. I retreated back to my position at the doorway and stared at him. He stared back at me.

We both stared at each other, at loss. I cannot recall many other occassions during which I felt more helpless than I did then. Just as I was wondering how long I had to be stuck with my feathered "friend", he had an enlightenment. I didn't exactly see it - it happened rather quickly - he flew behind the blinds, and somehow managed to escape the way he came in.

Once ascertained that he'd indeed left, I rushed to the window with the intention to shut it securely, lest more winged creatures decide to drop in. That was when I realised there were droppings on my window sill, and on my cabinet closest to the window!

Too much, Mr Yellow-Beak, too much! I have nothing against you, but you know I really don't like you when you scare the crap out of yourself in my office! Don't come back if you can help it.