Alex and the Woodpecker

My sister Susan has two teenagers. She tells me that they both hate being asked questions. Any questions whatsoever. She says this "Zits" comic strip from last Thursday utterly and thoroughly represents her current state of motherhood (click image to enlarge).



So I can just imagine her quietly sitting at her kitchen table early one morning last week, sipping her tea, reading the paper, and certainly not asking any questions when the following event happens.

My 17 year-old nephew Alex sleeps on the second floor of their house. Right above his bedroom window, under the eave, is a woodpecker. TAP TAP TAP TAPTAPTAPTAPTAP. It starts revving up with the pecking thing really early. And high-schoolers do not like being awakened early.



Rudely roused from heavy teenaged slumber yet again by the incessant pecking, Alex pads downstairs, silently passes his mother in the kitchen, proceeds to the gun cabinet, and removes the .22. Still without a single utterance of explanation, he then shuffles outside, throws pebbles from the driveway at said woodpecker, causing it to fly away in alarm, whereupon he readies, aims and fires. BAM!



And just like that, with one shot, the inconsiderate dawn aviary alarm clock has ceased to be a problem. I can just imagine my birdfeeder-filling, National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Birds-owning sister watching this scenario unfold from the kitchen window. Alex then returns to the house, locks the harbinger of death back in its case, joins my sister at the table, and matter-of-factly says, "Mom. What's for breakfast?"

And I apologize in advance if this story upsets you, but before commenting on my cold-blooded murderous animal-hating kin or some such nonsense, check this woodpecker damage out. Wouldn't you want to shoot the damn thing too?