Mabel tightened the last bolt on her birdhouse prototype, which resembled a chrome-plated toaster with a 1980s boombox attached. The scent of sawdust and burnt cinnamon wafted through her backyard workshop. ‘Perfect,’ she whispered, patting the siding. The door hinge creaked like a disgruntled cat.
Mr. Pudelkamp, her neighbor, materialized at the fence. ‘What in heaven’s name is that?’ he asked, squinting at the contraption.
‘It’s a multifunctional avian habitat!’ Mabel chirped. ‘The toaster part keeps seeds warm, and the boombox plays lofi jazz for relaxation!’
He stared. ‘Birds don’t listen to jazz.’
‘Clearly you’ve never met a finch with a taste for B-flat,’ she said, adjusting a knob labeled ‘Siren Mode.’ The device whirred, emitting a sound like a lawnmower trapped in a washing machine.
A sparrow dive-bombed the setup, pecking at a glued-on plastic worm. The toaster hissed. A slice of bread flew out, landing in Mr. Pudelkamp’s petunias.
‘You’ve turned my garden into a breakfast buffet!’ he yelped, swatting at a confused pigeon.
Mabel grinned, oblivious as the birdhouse’s boombox switched to heavy metal. ‘Think of the synergy! Birds + bread = eternal harmony!’ The sparrow, now wearing a tiny headphone, launched into a solo of screeches and beak-shaped guitar riffs.
By dusk, the contraption had attracted a flock of confused songbirds, a stray raccoon in a bowtie, and a very angry squirrel with a clipboard. Mr. Pudelkamp sat on his porch, sipping tea as the chaos crescendoed. ‘Next time,’ he muttered, ‘I’m building a birdhouse out of matchsticks and regret.’
