View from the North 40: Due to high temps, all humor is canceled until further notice

Normally I like baked goods, but when the good being baked day after day after day is me, not cookies or caramel rolls or those little personal-sized quiches, I do not approve.

The laughter remaining in me after the grasshoppers got done with it got cooked to an unrecognizable lump then set out on the counter to wither away to a crusty husk of itself.

My struggle is so dire that earlier this week I was reduced to cussing out little birds for their crime of being obnoxious.

We have a scraggly ash tree that sits at a kind of crossroads on our property — alongside the graveled driveway between our trailer house and the big shop, right where you turn one direction to go to my tack shed or the other direction to the dumpster. The tree has had a nesting pair of western king birds all summer.

And all summer long those two have squawked and chattered and squabbled and flapped and flitted around every time we’ve walked in any of that general area, and I mean ev-er-y time, all day long, many multiple times a day.

Normally, I think it’s funny or interesting, and sometimes I don’t even notice. That day, though, I was not only hot and tired, but I was also very tired of being hot and tired — and I was pretty heated up about it, too, you know, in the little box where I store my emotions. So, yes, I took time out of my busy afternoon, delayed my return to the air conditioner even, to get into an argument with the birds about what horrible neighbors they are.

It started with me standing in the sun’s glare telling the two birds, “Oh, just shut up.” When that caused an increase in their general ruckus, my part of the discourse immediately devolved into swearing, lots of gesturing and some clear threats to end their lives — legality and morality be damned — as well as a harsh reminder that I own the property on which they are squatting. I was not messing around.

It worked.

I know, I couldn’t believe it either.

The two birds settled onto the power line and cocked their heads to stare at me askance, with their little beaks clamped shut in a disapproving line, but I did not care in the least. They were still and they were quiet, and I walked the walk of the righteous back to the house, where I stood in front of the window air conditioner with my shirt pulled open to the cold air and flapping in the artificial breeze to cool my overexerted self down more quickly, help the sweat dry.

It was a cheap and ill-mannered victory, not my finest moment, but it was the only thing that had made me smile for days on end.

Last night, the cat woke me in his usual charming manner, standing under my open window singing out every note on the cat scale of meows, using different tones and accents just to be extra endearing.

It worked.

Half past midnight — despite the fact that the house and I had finally cooled off enough I could drop into a deep sleep — I dragged myself out of bed to let the cat in.

Of course, he likes to roll in the dirt and dry grass before coming in, so I did a quick visual check by moonlight for any dishevelment as he trotted through the door. I saw something odd on his back and reached out quickly to swipe it off before it got spread throughout the house.

Just before my hand made contact, I thought, “That looks kind of like—” yup, it was bird poop. I had a small handful of fresh stuff. That’ll wake you up in the middle of the night.

As I was getting us both cleaned up, I had time to think about this turn of events. Logic dictates that the culprit was a pigeon in the barn. Sure it would be a lucky shot from 20 feet up in the rafters, but after all these years I know pigeon bombs when I see them.

Without absolute evidence, though, the western king birds are on my list of suspects. They shut their mouths when I yelled at them, but the devious stares they shot at me held a glint of revenge. Besides, you know what the Klingons always say, revenge is a dish best served cold.

It was a brisk 72 degrees outside at the time.

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If this keeps up, we might have to change the state’s old catch phrase to “If you don’t like the weather in Montana, wait five months,” at http://www.facebook.com/viewfromthenorth40 .