For the last month, a bonded pair of mourning doves have taken refuge in my apartment building’s atrium to mate and produce and so on. Their nest is somewhere in the bushes across from my door. Their near constant cooing has kept us aware of their every move. All day they go in and out with twigs and other shit for their home. They sit around. Coo. Have sex in front of my window. Multiple times. And hide from the crows circling above. Or ravens. Whatever they are in Los Angeles. My fiancé says crows. They eat dove eggs. We are a safe haven for them.

My two sons love watching the doves through the metal screen door. Carefully watching their every move and alerting us to any activity. My youngest son, Dill, is harmless. Physically weak, unintimidating, clumsy, air headed, slack-jawed, and very gay. His older brother, Mr. Baby, is evil. The source of his wickedness is his ‘evil eye,’ a slowly growing malformation in his left eye that will eventually need to be removed — that’s what his ophthalmologist says. Without thinking he bites every guest that comes into our home. Knocks books off shelves. Eats paper and plastic. Vomits to get our attention. Beats up poor Dill. And can leap nearly six feet into the air. Together, our two sons have watched over these birds from the moment they arrived in our atrium. This is — maybe — the best thing to happen to them in years.

The apartment group chat is only reserved for residents to tell other residents that their dirty fucking laundry needs to be taken out of the one working machine so somebody else can put their stinking fucking clothes into the laundry at three bucks a cycle — up three-quarters of a dollar since we first moved in four years ago. Yet, these doves have broken that pattern and invited community into the isolated units of laundry.

“What are they doing?” the Blue Lives Matter man in unit 9 asks the single mother in unit 2.

“You know, mourning doves mate multiple times in a season,” the son of the unit 2 mother says to me as we pass the doves minding their own business. They are his special interest. He will go on to be a great bird watcher and document the return of the California Condor, winning a prize from the National Geographic Society in 2039.

I hear my fiancé coming home after work. The car door slams in the rear lot, followed by the atrium door. I know she’s got groceries, and inspired by the doves, I decide to help her out for once.

Down the stairs I go to see Dill and Mr. Baby peering through the metal gate. “Move,” I ask as I push my leg in front of them.

“Hello, boys,” my fiancé says to them. I turn the lock on the metal door and push it open. She loses her grip on the cheap paper bag. Mr. Baby creeps outside. Dill tries to get a better look.

“Shit!” I try to grab him. His evil eye has locked on.

The fledgling is sitting right under our patio furniture. Immediately, it sense danger and attempts flight. Things start to move in slow motion and fast motion at the same time, disorienting me. Mr. Baby leaps into the air higher than ever before and snatches the fledgling from the air with his teeth and claws. My fiancé screams, “NOOOOO!!!” All throughout the building, people get up to see what’s happening.

Mr. Baby runs into the house with the bird in it’s mouth, flapping its wings desperate to fly away spreading feathers all over the entrance. The game is on. He runs under the couch with the bird, followed by little brother Dill. I reach under to try and force him out. He runs up the stairs now, feathers going all over. I chase him. Followed by my fiancé. Dill far behind. My fiancé screams, laughs, cries, unsure what to say as we thunder up, tripping over our shoes, banging into the walls. He takes the bird under our bed. Around the bed. Over the bed. Feathers and blood and bird shit. “FUCK!” Keep away. Keep away. It’s mine, he snarls. Let me play, Dill pathetically whimpers. Into the bathroom. Back down the stairs. He lets go for a moment. It flutters a foot away before being completely tackled by the monster. Bunny kicked. I manage to grab his scruff and pin him to the ground. “LET GO!” He does so. My fiancé opens the door and the fledgling flies directly into the bush. Mr. Baby spits out feathers like a Looney Tune. Pah-tooey.

Before we can all catch our breath, apartment doors start to open. The young couple across from us shouts over, “Everything all right?” My fiancé goes to the door, apologetic.
“Our cat ran out the door and caught the baby bird!”
“Oh my god!”
My heart drops. *Why!?!* Why would you admit this!?! The woman upstairs chimes in. “Is it all right?”
“We got it but he chased it all through the house! It was horrible!” I want to cover her mouth. Mr. Baby climbs up the metal screen and yells into the cavernous atrium. My god! I see eyes peering from blinds.
“It’s all good!” I try to cover up. “It was only a moment!” Go back to your dirty laundry. Nothing to see here. Shows over.
“Well I hope the baby is okay,” a disembodied voice shouts. I pry Mr. Baby from the screen, shut the door, and lower the blinds. The house is destroyed. Discombobulated is accurate.

“God damn it, Mr baby,” she says. “I should go see if the bird is okay.”

“Do not go out there,” I snap.

“Why!?”

“We’re pariahs! Bird killers!”

“You think it’s dead?” I don’t know how to answer. Take a look around woman. “Maybe we can call somebody?”

“Like who?” I start sweeping up the carnage.

“The vet? Animal control?” She plops herself on the couch and buries herself in increasingly horrific Google searches. There are teeny tiny thin little feathers everywhere. Mr. Baby licks his ass hole clean. “Nature is fascist,” she cries. I can’t help but laugh. Then I have to apologize for laughing.

The rear door slams shut as some of the other tenants come home from work. “Where are those birds?” They mutter amongst themselves unaware of the insidious gossip spreading. Unit 6 cannot control their animals. Unit 6 should have their animals taken away. Unit 6 should be put on trial. I double check that the door is locked. Peer out the blinds. Ah, the lawyer couple from number 4. Whoopdeefuckingdo. They have nothing better to worry about than the whereabouts of a sexually active pair of doves and their offspring? Some of us are sheltering enemies of the state with an inconsolable woman!

“Cat saliva is — Is — Toxic to birds,” she croaks out. I take the phone from her hand to read whatever AI bullshit it says. It does say that. This bird will die no matter what. According to Goop. According to Bing Bong and Doo Woo and Dennis. Great! That little boy from unit 2 will find it’s decaying corpse on his doorstep on his way to kindergarten, accidentally crushing it’s bones beneath his sneaker. Forget his National Geographic Society award. His scream will echo throughout the entire apartment complex and arouse some sort of witch hunt to find who is responsible. But they will already know. It was my son. The murderer. We will be evicted. Fired from our slave labor jobs. And forced to do an antagonistic apology tour on Good Morning America and Today and Fox and Friends and endure think pieces and podcasts and comments questioning how my upbringing in a white, Soros funded house led me to becoming some communist, bird-eating, piece of shit, kill-your-self, type guy, before ultimately and inexplicably leading a grassroots political movement that warps itself into closing down the Post Office and dismantling all sidewalks.

“What should we do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Those doves trusted us!”

“Us?! We didn’t tell them to move in!” Now she’s on the phone. “Who are you calling?”

“Animal control.” She’s placed on hold with the city. I start making a cocktail before starting on dinner. Old Fashioned with little to no sugar. She remains on hold the entire time. I make chicken thighs with a chimichurri like sauce thing and whatever vegetable we have that is about to spoil. She quietly sniffles in the other room. Softly cursing Mr. Baby for his innate nature. Wishing we had nurtured him to maybe not do something like that. If that was even possible. He cries, demanding dinner. I oblige him, fearful of what he’s ultimately capable of. Coming to the understanding that yes my cat would eat me if I died. But hopefully he would feel slightly remorseful and also share with Dill so he didn’t starve after my death.

I let her know it’s time to eat. The cats are sleeping, fat on their own meal. Chicken flavored slop for sensitive kitty bladders with chicken flavored crunch with pre and probiotics. Jesus Christ.

Everybody Knows My Son Killed a Baby

Twenty-Nine and a Half: A plea to you, good people