Or, just call me Tippi.
I parked the old red Jeep and started walking to my meeting. At first I thought maybe some sort of pebble had blown off of a roof and hit me on the head. I tried to brush it off of my head. Then it came again. This time I heard a strange whirring before impact. Not a big impact but definitely a sharp prick of something on my skull. Seconds later I heard that whirring again. I turned to see a bird like some sort of World War I ace of a pilot nose diving toward me. I waved my arms trying to distract the crazed pilot and failed. There it was again. That sharp prick on my skull before the bird pulled out of its nose dive to soar again to a tree or lamp post or brick wall. This kept up the entire distance from my Jeep to the door of my meeting. I expected blood to begin oozing down my face at any moment. I kept frantically waving my arms. Papers fell to my feet. Only unyielding pride forced me to pick them up.
I saw that movie. I know how it ended.
Finally at the building, at the door, of my meeting, I threw it open and dived into the room imagining feathers flying around me.
Said I, "That bird is trying to kill me!"
"Oh, that," came the reply of a seasoned bird attack survivor. "It's spring. The bird has a nest somewhere. It's only trying to protect it."
"I was no where near its f'ing nest," I said realizing how completely I failed at keeping desperation and panic from my voice.
"You don't know that," from the seasoned survivor.
And, of course, I really didn't.
Generally I can't wait for meetings to end. I sat through this one -- no more or less deadly dull than most others -- dreading its end. I kept bringing up pointless suggestions or objections. I became that irritating person who never seems to want a meeting to end.
It did, though, finally.
When I stepped out of the building the bird saw me and headed for my head. Dignity lost to that so completely compelling fight or flee response. I ran to my Jeep. What I dropped stayed on the ground.
Once inside the Jeep, door closed, and locked I forced myself to take deep breaths and really truly consider the protective instincts of birds.
Very impressive. I mean it. Very impressive.
Later, though, come fall, those baby birds will get kicked out of the nest to either fall to the ground or learn really quickly how to fly.
In the meantime, I'm not going to anymore meetings there.
That bird hates me.