Yesterday I drove the kids out to meet my husband and in-laws at a house they were looking at. It was a crazy huge house that had been over-the top elegant in it's prime. It had pool, sport court, and a yard that would require a full-time gardener.
It had fallen into foreclosure and was in need of some work. It had some missing light fixtures and unfinished remodeling. Weeds were overtaking the cobblestones of the circular drive and the porch had a little pile of bird poo. We looked up at the giant archway and found a nest with three, baby birds peeking over the edge of the nest. It was adorable.
As we prepared to leave, the realtor, an oaf of a man, took a 2 x 4 and headed for the birds.
"There are birds in there."
"Oh, don't hurt the birds."
"They're just babies."
These were what came out of our mouths as we watched him wield the 2 x 4 and jab at the little nest up in the corner.
"Oh no," the kids said, as three little birds fell to the stone porch. One tried to flit away. One was hopping around on one leg and one was squirming on it's back. It was heartbreaking.
"I didn't know there were babies," the ogre said in response to my kids' sympathetic sounds. Like crap he didn't. We'd told him. Savannah moved forward to try to rescue the bird on it's back. "Don't touch it or it's mother will abandon it," he said like he cared, as he prodded and tried to right it with his board.
We got in the car to leave. My husband, seeing how upset the kids were, came to the door and apologized for what we'd just seen.
We left and the kids said a prayer for the birds and then Savannah cried all the way home.
No one lives there. It needs work. The birds were the least of their worries. Hose of the porch until the birds are grown if you're so worried.