Some days you're the windshield, some days you're the bug...and some days, you're a bird's toilet.
Alas, poor T-Hoe, I wish him well. He has had a rough go if it lately. I am ashamed to say that I have not washed him in a coon's age, because the last time I went through the automatic car wash with The Pony, I started to freak out. Don't know where that came from, but I'm leery of going back in. At least I didn't try to jump out like that one guy I saw on TV the other day. A giant spinning vertical brush bent his car door backwards. I even got in line one day and waited until time to pay, then chickened out. T-Hoe will have to be cleansed by one of my menfolk.
Nature had its way with T-Hoe yesterday. That downpour on the way home washed him clean as operating room instruments right out of the autoclave. Almost. I parked him in the garage, all shiny and sparkly, if not sterile.
This morning, my poor T-Hoe was bespotted with little cat feet footprints that had rolled in overnight. Those cats had gone no farther than T-Hoe's hood, bonnet if you're British (and perhaps live on that new island nation, England). The footprints did not traipse up the windshield as they sometimes do.
I took my lottery windfall to the bank today. The creeks were up from two days and nights of heavy intermittent rain. Even the fish trap/tombstone had succumbed to the mighty torrent. Sometime between the bank and my last stop for a 44 oz. beverage, nature once again had its way with T-Hoe.
I peered out T-Hoe's sparkling windshield to find that it was no longer sparkling like a Cubic Zirconium in a sixteen-year-old steady-going gal's promise ring. No. An uncouth avian had left a deposit. An uncouth avian with an apparent digestive upset.
Good taste prevents me from posting a photo. Okay. Not so much good taste as the fact that I did not take a photo because two clerks from The Voice of the Village were having a smoke break beside the building, right in front of T-Hoe. What kind of freak takes a picture of bird droppings while people can see her? Not this ol' Hillbilly Mom. So I must simply use my words to describe it.
If only that little birdie had warned me, like Carrie Mae in The House Bunny, "Do any of you guys know where the crapper is? I have to drop some timber." Then I could have been prepared for that giant black log nearly the size of a miniature-golf pencil laying vertically on the passenger side, midway down my windshield, with those streaks that looked like caramel running toward the wipers. I swear, that pterodactyl-size birdie must have lost half his intestines with that dump.
I did not turn on my washer/wiper in an attempt to clean the carnage. I feared it would smear all over that half of the windshield. My plan is to let it bake in the garage, then wipe it dry to see if it flakes off.
The only problem is...Farmer H is driving me to the city tomorrow to the doctor at MoBap, and I can imagine him washing/wiping without consulting me. That might be grounds for sending him through a car wash. T-Hoe, too.