I told you that story to tell you this one: A Continuation

When my Dad was 8 years old he had a cap gun that he loved to no end. According to my grandmother he spent all of his waking hours that fateful summer playing with the cap gun. I don't know, I guess it was 1966 and not much else was going on or something, either way, times were tight and that was his latest toy. Also, in 1966 we were not worried too much about child safety because said cap gun actually shot out a little "cap". Don't most of today's cap guns just make a little poof?

Anyways.

In 1966, my grandmother had a bit of a menagerie of birds. Come to think of it, they had a menagerie of animals. Several dogs, several birds, and a Caymen Alligator. The poor Caymen would meet a tragic fate at the hands of my father, but that's a later story. On this particular day, my young dad had his sights set on one thing and one thing only: my grandmother's beloved canary.

There are two versions of this story that circulate through family lore. It really depends on who you choose to believe.

The version by my own Dad goes a little something like this:

I was just sitting there in the living room, watching Captain Kangaroo on TV when Mom's canary flew to perch on the top of the television set. I accidentally shot my cap gun in the general direction of the bird and she fell over, dead.

I think it generally goes without saying, I don't believe this version of the story, ONE BIT.

The second version of this story goes a little something like this: as transcribed from my Aunt B,

Your father was a mean little boy. I mean, really mean. He would guard our front yard and not let people walk on the sidewalk in front of our house. Mean, okay? Mama loved that canary. She would let it free to fly around the living room and he would perch on her finger if she whistled. Your father, as you can imagine was quite jealous of Mama and the bird. Did I mention he was mean? 'Cause he was also jealous of anything that might love Mama too. So, he took one look at that bird that day and killed it...on the spot. It's a wonder he isn't a serial killer now.

That's the version I believe. Because you take one look at these pictures and try to deny that my father was a mean kid:



So yesterday when Jon managed to kill a bird while it was innocently eating in a retreat I created with my own two hands, I knew I finally had my equivalent bird story. Especially when Jon denied aiming at the bird that he killed, "it just flew in the way of my shot" he said.

Right.

And Dad just accidentally killed the canary on his TV set.

The One in Which He Kills a Bird

As fate would have it the biggest threat to my bird retreat has not been my cats. Despite their many attempts, neither one of them has been able to get the big kill. Hell, they can't even manage to kill a butterfly they chase in the yard.

As fate would have it the biggest threat to my bird retreat has been my own brother.

Yes, you read that right.

All weekend long Jon has been out in the backyard playing around with his various BB gun things (I say things because they are different then your average Red Ryder, yet I don't know exactly what they are), while I laid on the back patio working up a good sunburn in prep for Florida. I kept telling him to be careful, to not shoot at the bird retreat. Yet, over and over he disobeyed my directions. I guess it all has to do with that being 13 thing again, no longer is his sister's word good enough.

I knew that at some point, whether he wanted it to happen or not, there was bound to be tragedy. Especially after finding pellet holes in EVERY SINGLE CONTAINER full of plants in that retreat.

I just didn't realize how right I would be.

(THE FOLLOWING IMAGE IS ONE OF TWO THINGS: DISTURBING, OR HILARIOUS. I CAN'T SAY FOR CERTAIN WHICH KIND OF PERSON YOU ALL ARE, SO JUST CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED:)



Now, for three solid days now I've been taking St. John's Wort supplements. Sometime last week I began my monthly two weeks of emotional hell and after a particularly bad day of screaming, crying and general hysterics I concluded that perhaps I was dealing with more than just PMS here.

I won't deny. With the help of Dr. Google I diagnosed myself with PMDD. It just makes sense. And let's face it, in terms of a condition like that, all my doctor would be doing is guessing too. So I saved us all the trouble.

Except PMDD is usually helped with the assistance of a few friends I like to call Mr. Pro and Mrs. Zac.

I'm not much for the antidepressants. If you take them and you like them and they work and you want to braid their hair, more power to you.

I just am not at a stage in life where I feel ready to submit myself to such a scary drug with such scary side effects. My Dad just got off of a year of Cym*balta and that was a scary withdrawal process and for the first time in a year he is just now active again.

So, I'm just not there.

I did, however, do a little research to find something that might help me in my hellish little mood situation. Something that wasn't copious amounts of booze.

Am also not ready to be an alcoholic. See, I'm non-discriminatory!

St. John's Wort. That was my answer.

And in three days time I can honestly say I'm beginning to see a difference.

How, you say?

Well, the old April would have cried after her brother killed a precious little bird. She'd have cried and told him "I told you so" and then been mad for a while. It would have been a real spectacle.

St. John's Wort-April COULD NOT STOP LAUGHING. It was seriously the funniest crap ever. From the moment he opened the door with that look of dread on his face, to watching him preside over its last little feather flop, to the moment St. John's Wort-April said, "hang on, let me get my camera."

Later on my father asked me why I felt the need to take a picture of the dead bird my brother had killed. And I gave him the honest answer, "So I can have it for every Christmas party and family gathering from here until eternity."

And I meant it.