For the birds

So, last night at the office, Andrea and I are chatting and we hear a squeak. We did the whole, "did you hear that?" bit. And sat silently. Nothing. Andrea went to get dinner and came back, backed slowly from her cubicle and said, I saw something black. I walk over to check it out, and under another cube, see a large dark thing scurry. I immediately climb up on my desk like the leggy characters in a Tom and Jerry toon. We contemplate what to do while squealing like little girls and talking about how weak our legs feel. I get down from atop my desk to see if I can get a better look at this rat-like animal, and there she is.

A bird.

I hate, hate, hate birds. They are scary and gross and one of my worst fears is that a wayward one will crash into my head, biting me and giving me rabies, the bird flu, salmonella, lice and whatever else those dirty little mutants carry around in their creepy little talons. I think it would be less dangerous to be in an unprotected three-way between Ron Jeremy and Magic Johnson.

Full-blown panic sets in. I am a stuttering, shaking mess. Just saying bird repeatedly. Andrea, not afraid since its not a rat, goes in search of it. And never finds it. The bird is still at large and I spent the rest of the night with my feet pulled up to my chest on my chair, watching the drop ceiling for signs of death's silhouette.