Every time I go into or past the puppers’ room, I hear a steady thump . . . thump . . . thump. It started about a month ago, and it took me a while to figure out what the heck it was. There’s a tree right outside the windows, and a mentally-challenged cardinal lives there. He’s gorgeous but apparently dumber than dirt (which is why I think it’s a “he”). Over and over, all day long, he flies into the window glass, bounces back, takes a minute to recover, then does it again. And again.
Frankly, I figured he’d be dead after a week of it, but when I was in there a bit ago, there he was, banging that pretty head against the glass for at least the thousandth time. Just how stupid is he? I wonder. He can look through the branches and see daylight; he can see other birds flying in and out of the trees, but he just keeps hitting the window, never giving up, always dusting himself off and trying one more time.
Bet you think I”m going for an analogy here . . . how we authors are that cardinal, banging our heads against the publishers’ windows trying to get in. We know there are other, easier pursuits available; we can look through the branches and see the sky, the flowers, the trees where other birds flit, but we stay where we are, knocking ourselves silly. Okay, it didn’t work the last time, but maybe THIS time . . .
Nope. I’m just sharing with you what a putz that bird is. One of these days, with my camera handy, I’m going to open the window and the screen and see what happens when, instead of bouncing off the glass, he flies into the room. With the puppers. I bet there’ll be birdsh*t everywhere.
Come to think of it, it does remind me of the publishing biz. Sometimes you kill brain cells. Sometimes you get knocked off your feet.
And, even if you do make it through the window, sometimes all you get for your effort is sh*t.