Richard Reiss

There are few rituals in my life. I brush my teeth before I go to sleep every night. And, along with a few million others, I watch the national news every evening with my wife, although that is more her ritual than mine. Yet beyond these simple activities, I come up woefully empty in the ritual department, which is just fine with me. Heaven forbid I become a creature of habit.

Imagine, then, how I felt when through no fault, desire or inclination of my own a new, third and messy ritual entered my daily routine. Honestly, I’m annoyed and a bit stumped.

It was an innocent beginning. A pair of sparrows, let’s call them George and Gracie, decided to build a nest on a ledge above the front door of my house.

“Why not?” I thought. I like birds and even had a bird feeder in my yard until the bear panic of 2023 put an end to it. I have counted 18 different types of birds on my property, and I very much enjoy watching and listening to all of them. If George and Gracie were hell-bent on turning my home into theirs, I wasn’t going to fight it. Three days later, the nest was complete.

Shortly thereafter, George and Gracie disappeared. Where did they go? Why spend all that time building a nest and never using it? Would they come back? Was it something I said? Not to worry; they returned. A week later, they were happily nested, and they weren’t alone. Four spotted gray eggs joined them. Two weeks later, four very hungry, very noisy baby sparrows resided comfortably above my door. George and Gracie were so proud: quadruplets — what a feat. Time to start the college fund.

My wife and I were proud, too — at least, initially. Did I mention they were noisy? Who would think that such tiny things could make such a racket? Yet I took it in stride, feeling good that I was helping Mother Nature and her critters. Soon, the baby sparrows would grow little feathered wings and fly away. Meanwhile, weren’t they cute?

No. Not only were they noisy, but my beautiful front porch was treated to a daily onslaught of bird droppings. There was so much, in fact, that my new ritual became hosing down my front porch to wash it all away.

I tried to be philosophical. I took pictures of the babies and posted them on Facebook. I told my friend about the beautiful expansion of my nuclear family. And, of course, I often reminded myself that eventually they would fly away, each little birdie finding a new ledge of its own. Yet every morning as the sun rose above the trees, I woke up to a pile of bird poop on my doorstep that continued throughout the day.

Weeks passed. The chirping and the pooping grew exponentially with the birds, as did my annoyance at them and my new ritual. Would they ever leave? Dark thoughts entered my mind. I recalled the mice infestation 2019 when, at wits’ end, I mercilessly rid my home of dozens of mice with the assistance of a little poison. Could I do the same to George and Gracie’s children? I Googled “What is the penalty for killing sparrows?” Yes, there are penalties. There are very large fines for acting unkindly to our feathered friends. No matter. I couldn’t do it anyway. I would be patient. They would leave. Of that, I was certain.

And I was right. Eventually, all six of them flew away. For two days, my house was bird and poop free. My unplanned ritual had finally come to an end. And then, unexpectedly, like that annoying cousin who shows up every year for Thanksgiving, they returned and resumed.

Life seemed unfair. My feet were wet and my porch was stained. George and Gracie and their offspring had lots of friends. They circle my porch and fly low until they find the perfect ledge to leave a small reminder of their visit. And then, in ritualistic fashion, I clean up the mess.

I suppose this is a small price to pay to live where I live. There is an abundance of wildlife in my neighborhood, and for that I am grateful. At this point, my only hope is that nature will take over. There are natural predators who could easily put an end to my ritual. Among them are the hawks who currently seem content to feast on the few mice that escaped my onslaught six years ago. When the mice are gone, the sparrows, still living and pooping on my porch, will be in abundance.

I hope the hawks take notice. I hope they are very hungry. I hate to be cruel, but I detest getting my feet wet every time I wash the porch, which is daily. I’m putting up a sign in a nearby field where the hawks often fly low, looking for their lunch. It’s a picture of my front porch, my unwanted guests and the words “free food” in big black letters. I hope the hawks see it. I hope they are hungry. I hope they finally put end to my ritual. As the saying goes, I’m pooped out.