The Last Word On Nothing

I originally wrote about getting pooped on by birds on October 23, 2014.

Recent events call for an update.

1. Washington, D.C., 2004 or so

A bench around a circular planter, with a tree in it. I was eating my lunch. I felt something on my arm.

We call it poop, but the stuff that comes out of birds’ behinds is more complicated than that. Birds, like most vertebrates that aren’t mammals, have a single all-purpose exit called a cloaca. From that hole they expel eggs, the leftovers of their meals, and the products of their kidneys.

I assume that’s why the waste is two-toned.

2. Washington, D.C., the same era

Walking from work to the metro station. A poop on the front of my shirt. In my memory, this and the first poop both happened on the same day, but they couldn’t have. Nobody’s luck is that bad.

When you get pooped on a lot, people like to tell you that guano used to be worth a lot of money.

The word guano comes from the Spanish, who got it from the Quechua word huano, which means poop. In the 19th century, the guano of Peru was a major source of nitrogen for the crops of the world. That guano was significant enough to world history to be the subject of a book called Guano and the Opening of the Pacific World: A Global Ecological History by an environmental historian at the University of Kansas. Unfortunately, I do not have a copy of this book, but a review in Science suggests that it is awesome.

3. Paris, March 29, 2013

A pigeon in a tree near the Seine.

My companion enjoyed telling people later that it looked as if someone had upended a yogurt pot on my head. I think he was exaggerating, but I was glad I was wearing a raincoat. Unfortunately, the hood was down. Fortunately, the companion had tissues. Unfortunately, our Airbnb had no hot water.

Yesterday that same friend shared this message: “200 Years – The average amount of time that you have to wait supine before a bird poops in your mouth (source: Wolfram Alpha).” Some of that Paris bird’s excreta got, not in my mouth, but certainly near it, and that is close enough. It didn’t even take me 40 years, and I was indoors for most of that time.

4. Silver Spring, Maryland, later in 2013

Walking down the street, phone in hand, texting a friend that I was on the way, a bird pooped on the phone. This time, no tree was involved; it fell from the sky. At least it missed me. My phone made a full recovery.

An informal poll of Facebook friends finds that I have been pooped on more in the last decade than everyone but a dog walker and a biologist, who has been pooped on by a spotted owl, which is awesome. I am proud to also count among my friends people who have pooped on by bats and flying carp, although the carp were not flying at the time.

5. Washington, D.C., September 23, 2014

I was wearing a beautiful new jacket. I looked at the pavement. As I registered all the white splotches, I heard a familiar sound, inches from my left ear.

I think all this proves is that I spend a lot of time under trees. I didn’t think I spent that much time outside, but maybe I do. At least that makes me feel like I’m living my life right.

Even if I am a walking bird toilet.

UPDATE: In the time since I wrote the above I have learned, thanks to a feature on Facebook that revives old posts for an on-this-day feature, that there was another poop in that decade that I’d forgotten about. I was in a tent at the Smithsonian’s Folklife Festival when a bird went to the trouble of flying through the tent to poop on me.

And don’t worry. The birds haven’t neglected me in the last 19 months since I posted this, either.

6. Silver Spring, Maryland, May 4, 2016

After an unreasonably long internal debate, I decided to take the metro home instead of walking. About to cross into the street, I heard the splat on my right shoulder, felt the hit behind my right ear. I stopped a stranger and she wiped it off of my hair with a tissue from my bag.

It must have been a big bird. There was poop on my shoulder, on my beautiful, hand-knitted scarf, and on my hair. I was wearing a raincoat, with the hood down. When I got home and took off my raincoat, I discovered that the bird’s trajectory – I wasn’t under a tree or a wire so it must have been multitasking, flying and pooping – had also deposited a generous portion on the inside of my hood.

When that pigeon got me in Paris, in the same raincoat, I nearly cried. This time, I’d say my emotion was closer to…delight. I was only a few minutes from home and I could tell that a quick trip under the faucet would get the poop right off my scarf. Within 15 minutes, I’d written down detailed notes in case I ever need to write about it, told three people (the aforementioned nice stranger, the guy who I pick up groceries from, a neighbor and her dog), and had been informed that getting pooped on is good luck.

So. Bring it on, birds. Just stay away from my mouth and we’ll be ok.

Photo: Eric Isselee, Shutterstock