Recent Effluvia:

For three years now, I have been attempting to grow grapes. I planted two large vines in Lizz’s yard back when we were just friends. Last year, we got engaged and the first three bunches of grapes showed up, only to be devoured by insects a month later. This year, we got married and 42 bunches of grapes appeared!

The grapes were beautiful and had just started to turn into a beautiful purple shade when they began disappearing one by one. We have one of those wild, English garden yards that dozens of birds, butterflies and other wildlife like to hang out in, so it was anyone’s guess whose stomach they were ending up in.

Then we saw him. A scraggly, fucking teenage Robin was hopping onto our pergola and snatching grapes. I didn’t believe it when my wife told me. Then I saw the bastard firsthand, sitting on our fence, grape in mouth. If beaks could smirk, then this one did. He cocked his concrete-grey head at me, swallowed the grape and flew off.

Two days later, he had eaten 90% of the grapes. I saw him sitting in the neighbor’s yard, waiting for me to leave so he could continue his life of crime. I threw a tennis ball at him and nicked a feather. He didn’t flinch. He just started chirping loudly, flew overhead and dropped a huge pile of shit near my head (I saw it coming and moved). The next morning, every grape was gone and our porch had so much bird shit, you’d swear kids were playing paint ball with bird droppings.

I don’t know much about trapping birds, but I do know one thing. One way or another, that red-breast is going down.