I Think I'm on a Bird Hitlist
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Because this cannot be a coincidence anymore
Every morning, she poops all over our car. She covers the driver’s side door and mirror like she’s marking territory. My husband now stands out there on watch, actively shooing her away like this is a full-time job. She retreats… and then sends out her squadron to attack our back slider and the landscaper’s bobcat. The neighbor across the street is now also being targeted.
This has escalated.
My husband is standing there like, what is happening, and I am… laughing. Fully laughing. He does not believe this is happening.
I do.
Because this is not new. This is a lifelong situation.
My first bird incident started in grade school when I found an injured bird on the sidewalk and decided, with the full confidence of a small child, that I would save it. I convinced my dad we needed a cage. We brought a wild bird into our home, which already feels like a questionable life choice in hindsight.
It did not end well.
The bird got its beak stuck between the bars trying to escape and suffocated. Traumatizing. Absolutely devastating. A strong opening act for what would become a very strange pattern.
Not long after, my babysitter — who is a wonderful human — made the bold decision to let me watch The Birds.
That was it. I was done. Fully convinced birds were capable of organized violence and possibly holding grudges.
Then came junior high.
We’re at Disney’s Polynesian Village Resort. I am carrying two full trays of food, mostly french fries, for my sisters and me. Out of nowhere, seagulls descend in what can only be described as a coordinated attack. They’re landing on the trays, on my arms, on my head. My sister and I are screaming. I throw the food in the air like I’m in a slow-motion war scene.
Absolute chaos.
And somehow… not the last time.
Because throughout my life, birds have just… chosen me. If there is a bird in the vicinity, it will fly directly at my head. Geese, ducks, random backyard birds. I don’t know what energy I’m putting out into the world, but it clearly reads as acceptable target.
When my oldest was in high school, we had a bird in our yard. We named her Felicia.
Felicia did not like us.
Every day, she dive-bombed our cars. If we walked outside, she came straight for our heads. Boom. Boom. No hesitation. Just immediate aerial assault. And for reasons that remain unclear, she specifically targeted me and my oldest. My youngest? Unbothered. Clearly not on the list.
At least once — maybe more — she flew into the house.
Just… came inside. Screaming. Like she had business to handle.
And then, strangely, it stopped.
I met my husband. Life calmed down. The birds backed off. Ducks started liking me, which felt like emotional growth for everyone involved. I thought maybe whatever weird bird energy I had been carrying around my whole life had finally resolved.
We had turned a corner. We had healed.
And then, about a week and a half ago… Felicia came back.
Or her cousin. Or her reincarnated spirit. I don’t know. But this bird is out here every single day, attacking our car, clawing at the windows, and now going after the back door like she’s trying to get in and finish something we started in 2013.
My husband is losing his mind. And I cannot stop laughing.
Because yes, I know exactly what this is. It’s territorial. It’s nesting behavior. She sees her reflection and thinks there’s another bird in her space. I understand the science.
But also… this feels personal.
At this point, I’m not even mad. If my role in life is to be periodically targeted by extremely aggressive birds, I’m just going to accept it and document it properly.
Because honestly, it’s kind of impressive.
Not everyone gets a lifelong nemesis.
Mine just happens to weigh six ounces and live in the bushes.