However, for all the praise which may be heaped on our winged friends, they possess a certain habit that completely dismantles affection for them.
My car was badly in need of a wash, and I cannot abide a dirty car. On a bright Saturday morning, I lavished its metallic curves with a sudsy massage and tenderly rinsed, then buffed it to a beautiful shine. To take advantage of the inviting weather, I then drove to the beach. On my return from the pleasurable interlude among the waves at Port Kembla Beach, I discovered an horrific insult had been inflicted on me and my car. Excrement. An unknown assailant had dropped a juicy bomb on the back window. (Thankfully the bombardment was not on the scale suffered by the car in the photo below.)
There is, however, some admirable efficiency in the bodily waste disposal method of birds because they don't pee and poo separately. Mostly water, the excrement contains roughly 9% uric acid. Now I ask you: is that something we want landing on our possessions and our persons?
It is said that to be thus defecated upon by a bird, is to be lucky. This is surely the epitome of irony. What luck ensued from the senseless aerial assault on my car? What good fortune befell me following another occasion when I went out for my morning run, and had only traveled a hundred metres when something distasteful fell onto my nose and lips? What prize of good fate did I receive after a bird made a deposit on the front of my shirt while I was walking to work?
If birds could learn to not go to the toilet on me or my car, I might love them. But they do, and therefore I don't.
So as to not be thought of as a grumbler, I have a solution. Modern luxury cars have sensors which activate the windscreen wipers when rain hits the glass. This technology could be extended to the whole body of the car which would flush off the offending goop immediately, while simultaneously shooting a jet of water at the damn bird. Get to work on that one tech boffins, and make sure you give me some credit for the idea.