Bad Babies

Yesterday, upon our return home from work, I let my wife out of the car in the driveway. As she made her way up the steps to let the dogs out, I eased the car into the garage, threw the iPod into my bag, gathered my lunch box, threw the strap of my work bag over my shoulder, penguined my way around the car—it is an extremely tight squeeze—and out of the garage. I closed the garage door and started up the deck stairs. I had just put my right foot on the deck when my wife appeared through the sliding glass door, meeting me before I could take another step.

"I need you to turn around, go into the backyard, and hang out with the babies."

I must have looked bewildered because she said it again. "I need you to turn around, go into the backyard, and hang out with the babies." She added, "I'll take your bags, but I need you to turn around, go into the backyard, and hang out with the babies."

Okay. Noted!

She met me where I stood, took my work bag off my shoulder, snatched my lunch box out of my hand, and headed back inside, closing the sliding glass door behind her.

I knew right then and there that some serious shit went down in our absence.

I took my wife's advice and headed back down the deck stairs, across the driveway, and headed up the back stairs that lead into the back yard. I opened the gate, and the babies (the dogs) lost their minds. They ran around and around and around, kicked up dirt and gravel, wagged their tails like they were trying to shake them off, and barked like it was 1999.

I was skeptical.

"What happened, guys? What did you do?"

The basset barked. The mutt wagged his nubbin.

English is not their first language.

After ten minutes, they settled down—being outside with mommy was starting to lose its charm and wonder—and I started to grow more and more concerned.

I made the mistake of crossing the backdoor and taking a look inside.

What the?...is that?...feathers? In the hallway. Feathers. Everywhere. Seriously. It was like the babies had a pillow fight, and the pillows exploded upon impact.

Oh, fuck me. I started to get that sinking feeling. That sinking feeling where my babies—their precious faces!—had done something I would have never approved.

I had to ask, "Were you bad babies?"

Crickets.

Twenty minutes later, the babies and I were granted permission to enter the house. I could see remnants of what happened. A tiny feather rolled across the living room floor. A smudge here, a smudge there on the tile floor. A large wet spot on one of the dog beds. Water bowl, empty.

I used my deduction skills and figured that although she was nowhere to be found, the cat also played a part. According to my estimations, she was the Tarantino behind it all, catching the bird and bringing it inside to direct the dogs on how to finish it.

It sent shivers down my spine.

I saw a bloodbath. Birds flying, running for their lives, the babies teeth dripping with a mixture of blood and saliva as they hunted and killed and pranced their prizes around, trying to eat them, play with them, taunt them.

My wife tried to save me from it but my imagination couldn't help it. It turned me into a weird lesbian-animal-detective, searching for clues of suffering and unnecessary violence.

This morning, before my wife and I left for work, I had a heart-to-heart with the babies. I told them that, yes, they would have access to the deck again today. I explained that I feed the birds not for them to kill, but because the birds are hungry. And they know what it's like to be hungry. I reminded them that animals who don't live in the house stay outside.

I felt a little better, pulling out of the driveway, but English is not their first language.