When Doves Cry and Fly Into Bedrooms

Woke up this morning to the cooing of a dove.  Pried open my silken lashes from the gunk that the sandman left- when suddenly the cooing became the coughing gargling strangled strain of a dove that needed a tosilectomy.  Whoosh into my bedroom flies an errant dove casting shadows from his enormous 7 inches wingspan upon my head.  I ducked under the covers as a wild frenzy ensued as the beast crashed into walls and mirrors and chandeliers.  Gingerly, I crept out of bed and avoiding the warm gifts dropped by my visitor.  “MARISA, bring surgical gloves!” We don our protective coverings and proceed into the boudoir where the visitor is doing it’s toilette on the porcelain sink.  Soft, comforting words do nothing to coax our visitor into her waiting hands.  I lunge.  It flies. Hopping on the scale I snatch the creature from its glass and metal perch and carry it to freedom out the bedroom window from whence it came.  Promptly shutting the window. Hope your morning is going just as

Love, Mom