I hate starlings. Hate. Them.Daddy came over yesterday to remove the offending bird nest from my stove exhaust vent. He pulled out the nest and eggs and taped the vent shut with a strip of duct tape. Vent closed. Case closed. Right? Well, this would be a really boring diary entry if that were true. The damn bird tore the duct tape off and started rebuilding her nest. She has persistance, if nothing else. So I placed a “trouble call” back to my parents that I needed some better ideas to get rid of this usurper. I requested guns or chemical weapons or any sort of artillery necessary to get this feathered bitch out of my kitchen. I actually banged on the stove hood, shook my fist at the bird and yelled at her to “get the fuck out of my house.” It wasn't pretty. I headed upstairs to await the aviary SWAT team that was my father. So I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, combing my hair when I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye. Behind me, perfectly poised, was a goddamn starling perched on my shower curtain rod. A weaker person would have screamed. I considered whirling around and cussing a blue streak at the unwanted houseguest, but resisted. I only slowly turned around and walked out of the bathroom, closing the door behind me. And then I called Daddy to update the “trouble call.” I determined that the bird in my bathroom was actually the boyfriend of the bird in my exhaust vent. The father of her nasty little bird children. I went back downstairs to bang on the exhaust vent some more and yell at the momma bird and tell her if she wanted to see her Romeo again, she needed to start packing. She squawked and continued stuffing straw in the vent. Ok, bitch. Just as the United States does not negotiate with terrorists, I do not negotiate with starlings. Within 15 minutes Daddy arrived. His plan, however, was to shut my cat and dog in the bathroom with the bird and let them sort it out. I was then pacing outside the bathroom listening to my father repeat “get him” over and over from inside. There was the occasional flutter of feathers and scrambling around. My Sunday was quickly shifting from a scene from “the Birds” to a scene from “Psysho.” Needless to say, I was very worried - although I'm not sure if for the safety of my cat, my dog or my bathroom. After a few minutes, a silence fell over the house. My father then emerged with a dead bird in his hand and a stupid grin on his face, declaring I should have no fears about purchasing a pet bird as it would be completely safe around my stupid cat and dog. They apparently had no desire to kill the bird and every desire to leave the bathroom. Can't say I blame them. So now there is a duct tape fortress surrounding my exhaust vent and a line has been drawn in the sand between the wildlife in my neighborhood and me. Take no prisoners.