I came home yesterday after being away for one night. As I usually do, I wandered outside to check the garden, refill the bird feeders, and top off the bird bath.
That’s when I noticed something was wrong.
The pink flamingos were no longer standing where they belonged.
The gravel around them had been kicked and scattered, leaving bare patches across the yard. The flamingos were sprawled on the ground, casualties of what appeared to be a very personal attack. One of them had been partially chewed.
They had been flagellated flamingos.
They had been violated.
Then I noticed something else.
Just off to the left of the crime scene sat a massive pile of poop.
I kid you not.
I’m convinced it wasn’t an accident. It felt like a calling card, deliberately left behind by the culprit as if to say, “You’re welcome.”
This afternoon I gathered up the surviving flamingos and relocated them to what I hope is a safer neighborhood. They’re now tucked away in the tall grass, where they can recover in relative peace.
Although…
One of them is currently peeking through my bedroom window.
Frankly, it’s a little unsettling.
I may have solved one problem only to create another.
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