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Feathered intrusions, more duct tape

Greenville can be considered a sleepy little Southern town, where not much really happens on a Saturday night.

Like most small towns, you have those who will attend a church function, those who have dinner out with friends, or those who will stay home and grill out with the family and watch a movie.

You might even have some who will partake of libations, but that’s enough said about that.

Whatever the choice of activities on a Saturday night in Greenville, the key word here is &uot;choice.&uot;

Recently, I had no choice in my Saturday night undertakings.

There is a back window in my home that had a baseball sent through it well over thirty years ago, by one of my brothers and his friends as they played in the backyard.

For whatever reason, the hole in the window was temporarily repaired with the be-all and end-all of Southern repairs, duct tape.

Now, over thirty years later, that temporary repair has turned into a permanent fixture, one of amusement, nostalgia and of a story waiting to be retold to an unsuspecting guest. Needless to say, that duct tape, after Opal and Ivan, is a little worse for wear.

There is now a small hole in the duct tape, and, since I know that duct tape has a warranty of at least three generations of a family line, I have concluded that THIS duct tape must have come from a defective roll.

Having said that, let’s fast-forward to a recent Saturday night when even our feathered friends needed something interesting and fun to do.

Herein enters one little bird, the intruder.

I say it was an intruder.

The little bird really wasn’t a burglar, a thief, or a prowler.

It probably looked at that hole in the duct tape over the window and thought, &uot;Hmm, it’s Saturday night, and I’m bored. There’s a 21-pound tomcat in there who hasn’t made it from one end of the house to the other without having to stop and rest.

Who wants to double-dog dare me that I can fly through that hole, make it inside the house, torture that cat, and make it back out alive?&uot;

At this point, you know that one of his feathered friends probably said, &uot;I triple-dog dare you,&uot; to which he then had no choice but to go through with his entire ploy.

The next thing I know, Samson is very interested in something in the kitchen.

Then, he’s really interested in something in the hallway.

By this time, I realize we have a bird in the house.

I don’t know how many of you have ever tried it, but you can’t sleep with a bird in the house.

And, if the bird is in your mother’s bedroom, you know you’re not going to get any sleep that night period.

There is nothing that can be hopping, scampering, scurrying, slithering or flying in my mother’s bedroom.

Enter one fat cat and one fat cat’s owner.

I picked Samson up, which, in itself, will earn me a trip to Dr. Carol Pope’s office, threw him into the room and yelled, &uot;Get him, Sam!

Earn your keep!&uot;

At this, our feathered friend hopped around the floor going back and forth from underneath the bed to the dresser, to a wardrobe on the other side of the room.

How many of you have ever seen an overweight cat, an overweight cat owner, and an underweight cat owner’s mother all on their hands and paws trying to catch a three-inch bird?

You can’t make this stuff up, folks.

With a quickness I haven’t seen in years, Samson stalked back and forth in front of the dresser.

True to pure Batman form, one could hear, &uot;Pow!&uot;

&uot;Splat!&uot;

&uot;Smack!&uot;

&uot;Fwop!&uot;

and &uot;Ugh!&uot; coming from the bedroom.

(Oh, wait; that last sound was me trying to get up off the floor.)

With one final heave, Samson flops down on the floor as if he has decided to wait for the bird to come to him.

At this, our fluffy guest comes hopping out from under the dresser, and I pounce on him.

That’s right; I pounced on him while Samson looked on with wilting interest.

Please be assured the feathered intruder was safely returned outdoors, Samson resumed his position in the recliner, and all was again right with the world.

Hence, another sleepy Saturday night in Greenville drifts into the annals of small-town history.

Regina Grayson is a reporter with the Greenville Advocate.

She can be reached at 334-383-9302, ext. 126 or via email at regina.grayson@greenvilleadvocate.com.