A bird has decided to nest on the narrow ledge above our red front door. My roommate, annoyed that it was pooping so much where we walk daily, tried to scare it away by standing on a porch chair and putting random things on the ledge, like my turquoise five-pound hand weights, candles and a dustpan.
But this is no scared birdie.
It actually arranged its twigs against the weights and is there when I leave in the morning and when I come home in the evening, one black beady eye peering at me. I can see it breathing, but it doesn’t appear to be moving otherwise. We think it’s preggo.
Last night, I got home before my roommate and I heard her cooing at it when she walked in. I teased her for getting all voo-doo and wacky on the bird and now she talks to it like it’s a baby.
I think this fighting bird — we’ve determined it’s a mourning dove — is here to stay. And I’m not lifting those five-pounders any time soon (not like I ever did anyway). Maybe we should name it.
**Update (April 6): We have since learned that it actually two mourning doves taking turns nesting. So we need to come up with two names for the mother and the father.