The birds are stingy little rat bastards, and have never left any cherries on our cherry trees for us to eat. Matthew loves cherries, and was prematurely angry with the birds this morning. The birds who will eat our cherries in two more months. Birds who have not even done him wrong, yet.
Sometimes I find it best to meet unreasonable anger with unreasonable solutions.
“What we need to do is have someone sit out by the cherry trees everyday with a shotgun–”
“Miss Jill has a shotgun,” Matt put in.
“Of course she does, she’s from Texas. But someone needs to sit out there with a shotgun and fire it every time the commie birds try to take our cherries.” I pictured myself sipping lemonade while wearing a big floppy hat, cursing and firing into the air like a madwoman each time the birds landed.
Matt liked this idea, but seemed to be picturing it differently. “We could have fried chicken!”
“Honey, have you seen a lot of chickens up in our cherry trees?”