It started a few months ago, first with one little birdie. He (or she, it’s hard to tell with birds) landed on my hand when I pointed to the hole in our backyard where I found the buried plastic saint. At first I figured that one of our house’s previous owners was a firm believer in the whole St. Joseph can sell your house thing. But then there were more birds. And more. And I took a closer look. Whomever had buried the plastic saint either a) grabbed St. Francis rather than St. Joseph or b) was trying to lift her own bird curse by giving a St. Francis icon a dirt nap.
Whichever, however, matters not. All I want right now is to get all of these dang little birdies to fly away home before my dry cleaning bill equals the GNP of several small nations.