Bird Water

Staring out the window while Bill and I got sausage-gravy and biscuits ready for Sunday breakfast, Mom commented, “Boy, those birds sure do like that bird water.”

“You mean the Hummingbird feeder?” I asked, splitting flakey Buttermilk biscuits in half.

“No, the bird water,” she said.  “In the bird bowl.”

“The bird bath?” asked Bill, ladling sausage gravy onto the biscuit halves.

“I guess.  It’s water for the birds and they probably drink more of it than take a bath in it.  So whatever you want to call it, they sure do like it,” she said, shrugging and returning her attention to the Youthful Essence infomercial on TV.

“Well that’s why we put a bird bowl out there,” I said, plopping her breakfast down in front of her.  “I’m glad they seem to enjoy it.”

“Me too,  It means they won’t be going after the Hummingbird water and pooping all over the gutter,” she said, sipping her juice.  “They used to do that a lot until I put that sticky tar stuff on the gutter pipe to keep them away.”

“I remember,” Bill muttered.  “It’s called a downspout, Mom, and I had to replace the whole thing because it was such a disgusting, gunked up mess.”

“That’s because I had to keep putting more of that black sticky stuff on.  But it didn’t work very well; the birds kept coming back and the poop just stuck to it,” she finished, shoving a fork full of sausage gravy and biscuits into her mouth.

“Thanks for that appetizing picture,” I replied, staring at my own plate and rethinking our breakfast choice.

“No problem,” she said, grinning.  “One less thing for Bill to clean up.”

Bill grabbed his glass of OJ and left the room.  I thought I heard the liquor cabinet open, but I’m probably wrong.

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