Universal Subconscious

by Amanda Metcalf

Birds of prey become predators

A horse peed on me the other day.

Actually, he peed on my car, but, still, I was in it. I was traveling the same long, lonesome highway as in last week's column when an 18-wheeler began to merge into my lane - the left lane, of course. Because of his slight advantage in size, I decided to swallow my pride and slow down in one of those "You're welcome ... as if I had a freakin' choice!" moments.

But as he moved into °°my°° lane, a sudden splat accompanied the appearance of a transparent brownish-yellow liquid on my windshield. I thought, "Gee, did he hit me with his windshield wiper fluid? That never happened to me before." But I had another revelation as he finally moved back into °°his°° lane. The liquid on my windshield was not the customary toxic color of wiper fluid, and man, did that truck smell like horse crap.

I realized then that a horse had relieved itself, and I had driven right into the path of destruction.

Some people tell me that the sheer mechanics of a horse urinating inside a truck and its product landing on my car are impossible. But when I tell this story to my grandchildren - and I will - it will be horse pee that hit my car.

Although the larger of the two animals I'll discuss, the number of bombing accidents involving horses is far lower than their seemingly innocent counterpart, birds.

I don't discriminate. Birds of all kinds, sizes, shapes, colors and mating rituals target humans. As the world's population makes this earth more and more crowded, even more of us will become victims of these vile and ugly assaults by birds. Now, that's a latent consequence of overpopulation if I ever heard one.

I'm one of the people who already has been made the prey of a bird turned predator, and I can only hope that bird bomb-dropping is like lightning - it never strikes the same place twice.

Once was enough. I am scarred. Because of one sea gull, I not only harbor, but also express outwardly, disdain for all birds and other flying objects with digestive systems. I mutter under my breath at them. I yell obscenities at them. Friends and family quietly inform me that one of my "friends" is visiting.

Many times have I, and doubtless most of you, watched sea gulls at the beach circle overhead like vultures over road kill. You watch them with fear in your eyes and a target on your head, but you think, "It won't happen to me." Then you lie down to expose more surface area of your body to the sun, and consequently, the gull, and ... nothing happens.

Luck doesn't befall me so easily. I used to think it wouldn't happen to me, but I was wrong. My story begins with a walk on the boardwalk in Ocean City, Md. I was walking in the exact middle of four friends, as if I were the middle dot on the five side of a die.

One moment I was happily chatting with my friends and the next moment, a hot, chunky, white blob came to rest half on my camera and half on the bridge of my hand between my left thumb and forefinger. I apologize for the graphic description, but some journalistic works require unpleasant wording to communicate unfortunate details. My story must be told.

I was confused, even disoriented. What had just happened? My brain couldn't comprehend the situation and refused to connect the whistling "incoming!" sound and the splat with the physical impact on my hand. When I looked down, a few long milliseconds later, I screamed, threw my camera and yelled to all bystanders, children, friends and funnel cake-makers that a bird just %&#$! on me.

The nearby vendors had difficult-to-work napkin dispensers and no public bathrooms, and I refused to wait in line for a quarter-pounder and small fries for access to soap and water. So I ran around maniacally as my friends laughed and parents covered their children's ears.

And I think the sea gull laughed as he flew away, saying, "Yes, I got one!"

To this day, beaches and flocks of birds still make me nervous. But I refuse to let my victimization change my life. I step through the gates at Cedar Point or onto the beach, and as I see a group of gulls, I imagine that my attacker is amongst them, telling my story to his peers. Then I break into a sprint, and as I approach, I begin to wave my hands in the air like a televangelist praising God and I scream until they take flight, heading off to target practice, and maybe, somewhere out there, their next victim.