There’s a dead bird on our porch, he said.

He’s always been overly repulsed by the sight of dead animals. And so from our earliest days together it was one of the few critter-related matters I had to take on in our relationship, as he, incongruous as it may seem, has no problem killing hideous eleventy-bajillion-legged alien bugs, or escorting by hand the odd lost ladybug that materializes inside our house back out to its proper place among our garden’s hydrangea blooms. But I am the sole Person Who Deals With Dead Things around here, and as such have, over the years, had to dispose of a fair number of hapless former mice, tangible evidence of our retiring housecats’ still formidable hunting skills. Anyway, the point is that I knew immediately he’d be of no help in dealing with the thing on our porch.

Where is it? I asked, grimacing.

His left arm flew up, gesturing broadly toward the front of our house. He winced visibly. Over there.

I peered out our front door and spotted it, laying beside our rocking chair. Indeed, that bird is no more. It has ceased to be. It has kicked the bucket, bought the farm, it’s pushing up daisies. It is an ex-bird.

I have no idea what to do with it.

And so there it remains. Rife with symbolism so obvious it makes me want to punch whoever’s in charge of dropping these metaphoric talismans into our lives squarely in the ethereal jaw for insulting my intelligence with such a ham-handed, amateurish trope. I mean come on, universe — you can do better than that, can’t you?

But what do you do with a dead bird? I honestly don’t know.