It's been a little while since I cut the grass at our old house:

Reaching in to pull some of the weeds, hoping to avoid having to use the new weedeater since I killed the last two, I grabbed not only clover and dollar weed, but a fuzzy little bonus:

Yup, a bird. I immediately screamed out and you'd think that I was infested with bird flu on the spot, or SARS or something actually worthy of such a scream, but no, it was just a poor little birdie who flew into the house.

After disinfecting my hands with a mixture of bleach, lye, and radioactive material, I grabbed the camera and took pictures of the deceased. I am just not a bird person. I hit one with the truck the other day. I drove the kids to school and it flew right at us. I expected it to veer off, and it did, right into the antenna. Don't blame me. Blame Dodge for not having the antenna built into the back window. I should make public service announcements to warn the public:

Drivers don't kill birds, antennas kill birds.

If you don't teach your kids about antennas, who will?

This is your brain. This is an antenna. This is your brain trying to figure out how birds are dumb enough to fly into antennas but somehow don't get fried by sitting on power lines.

Maybe we just attract suicidal animals. These butterflies knew what they were doing when they flew into our yard during a frost:

This fish had written a note in gravel and blew his last bubble out before going into the fish yoga position Side-lying repose:

Even Mr. Bear is about to jump to end it all:

Maybe the memory of the mural got to him. I know it still bothers me.