I’m guilty of birdiecide.

I discovered the horror when I left for work this morning. I was cursing my municipality for not picking up all of my trash bags on Thursday. One bag topped the container, not allowing it to close all the way. I’d committed a mortal trash sin which will give you seven days of pennance with the rotting garbage in your garage. That’s the aroma I thought was overwhelming my nostrils this morning.

It wasn’t. Out of the corner my eye, as I was shuffling trash bags, I spied the source of death’s perfume. The little carcas was flat as a pancake right where my garage door meets the floor of the garage. Smashed birdie.

I stood there for a moment, at a loss as to what to do. Then I saw movement… I will spare you the details.

I got in my car, backed out of the driveway and hit the button on the garage door opener in the side pocket of the car door. A routine so automatic, I sometimes do a u-turn before leaving the neighborhood to be sure I’ve, indeed, closed the garage door.

In the street, as I shifted into drive, I realized what I’d just done. Birdie carcascide.

When I returned home this evening, I washed away the evidence. Oh, I know, even a pale imitation of Gil Grissom would have no difficulty in gathering enough DNA, microscopic feathers and fat maggots to incriminate me. But all that pales in light of what I faced when I stepped inside and looked out my kitchen window.

He stood there, staring at me with condemning eyes that said, “I know it was you. How could you? How? How could you?” Oh, horror, horror!