A bathroom for the birdies.

For all the wonders that spring brings with it - warm weather, sunshine, J.J. Hardy's brilliant blue eyes, flowers, green grass, and the smell of fresh rain on dusty pavement (just to name a few) - there is one spring phenomenon I could truly do without.

My front porch turns into a birdie bathroom.

It's ridiculous. This didn't happen until my father started feeding the birds in the front yard instead of the backyard. Before this, I would awake each morning to the not-as-soothing-as-one-might-think sounds of mourning doves and sparrows chirping as they fight over corn and seed. One morning I woke up and realized the birds were gone. In pursuit of better protection from predatory birds (more than once I have witnessed the demise of a mourning dove at the hands - well, talons - of a hungry hawk) and more plentiful food, they had migrated south-east to the front-yard birm.

I thoroughly enjoyed the break from my avian alarm clock. Of course, for every action there is a reaction and no good thing comes without a price. Upon returning home from work one summer afternoon, I noticed the white porch banister was in need of some serious re-painting. Of course, that was from far away. A closer inspection revealed the chipped paint was not, in fact, chipped paint at all, but bird poop. Lots and lots of bird poop.

By itself, a single bird dropping doesn't give off much of a smell. Combined, bird droppings have the power to bring even the most olfactorily-resistant man to his knees.

(I don't know if "olfactorily-resistant" is a phrase, or if "olfactorily" is even a word, but I am not deleting it. I like it.)

It's not only unpleasant to the nose; it's an eye-sore. And this is the front porch--this is the first thing people see when they come to the house. Is that the kind of impression we want to give people?

I scrubbed and scrubbed that banister, but try as I might I wasn't able to completely rid the porch of all the crap.

"Move the bird feeder, or clean the shit yourself," I told my father in exasperation. He didn't seem to care. He uses the garage door, thus limiting his exposure to the front porch.

The bird feeder remains.

As a side note, on more than one occasion I have found myself caught up in a mass of frantically flying feathers as my sudden presence on the porch has startled the birds from their peaceful perches. And while I feel badly for the occasional mourning dove that flies straight into the garage siding, I also laugh at it. I suppose that is the one bright side to this whole situation. A little bit of humorous bird suffering. It's the least they can do, seeing as they continue to use my porch for their toilet.