When Swans Attack

Yesterday morning, I spotted this headline while interwebing:

‘Killer’ swan attacks Illinois caretaker until he drowns 

Did you have the same reaction I did when you read that?!


So, you read that and thought, wow, what a tragically freak occurrence?  One that I can’t waste anytime worrying about protecting myself from, as the odds of it happening to me are so narrow?


Because I thought, Oh Shitballs!  I’m going to be attacked by a swan! -followed by furious googling to determine what temperate zone swans inhabit and if there are any known to live in my state.  Or anywhere near my state.

I’m a touch fearful.

And now, as if I don’t have enough to worry about, I have to add swans to the list?

Oh, I have a list alright.  And you’d do well to pay it heed.  Want to know what’s at the tippity-top?


Yeah, yeah, they live in the forest and have weeds hanging from their antlers, and they chew things slowly and make us think of Canada. Blah, blah, blah….

Those colossal beasts are bringers of destruction! They lurk just inside the tree line, waiting for the right(wrong!!) moment to languidly stroll into the path of your vehicle and let me give you the heads up, you do not walk away.

Fair warning: Do not drive in rural Canada! Even if you don’t hit a moose, the Canadian moose crossing signs will take a few years off your life just for good measure.  I swear they’re as big as a Times Square billboard. They loom over you every other mile, lest you forgot a half mile ago that a moose is coming to kill you. And graphic! That benign, unassuming, moose figure in the American signs?  Forget that.  In Canada, it’s colliding violently with a car, head tossed back, body mangled. If you weren’t smart enough to be wary of moose before, Canada teaches you.

Now, when I’m in the car, I’m on high moose alert.  Body tense, face in a grimace, eyes darting hysterically back and forth, back and forth.  Admonishing my husband for not doing the same.  Getting laughed at.

What’s next on the list?  The moose’s beloved cousin. Deer!

Forget Bambi.  Deer will kick your ass. Believe it.

In fact, look it up. I did. Deer attack! They attack humans! How do I know?  Research people.  Diligent research.

Truthfully, I’m afraid of most anything.  Airplanes, sharks, helicopters, cars, lightening, poisonous jellyfish, volcanoes, fire, car-jackings, flesh eating bacteria, serial killers, brain tumors, Australia, poltergeists, brain eating amoebas that live in warm water lakes, crocodiles, Florida, really mean people, brain aneurysms and don’t even talk to me about spiders.  Do NOT talk to me about spiders.

To add to my terror, I purposely search out possible causes of doom.  Just randomly think up awful stuff, and then cross check myself online.

..do snapping turtles kill for pleasure?

Now, the funny thing is, I thought that motherhood was going to alleviate my chickenheartedness.  Figured once I had the responsibility of a child, I’d realize real quick that my jitters were a silly luxury here in “reality”.

The joke’s on me.

And what a hi-LAR-ious, and apparently not going to end until the day I die, joke it is:

What if a gang of thrill-killing snapping turtles attack my son!

This is much, much worse.

I would throw myself in front of a train to save my son, but how can I be there to save him from everything?  What with all the ‘everythings’ there are to save him from?





He Who Can Not Be Blogged About, mostly laughs at my distress.  Assures me with statistics and logic.  He warns me against being over-protective, how that can be more destructive in the long run.

More destructive than Killer Bees?

And this is coming from the man who has dived- I’m talking about, arms out, head tucked, dived– to wrest from our son’s hand a bit of cracker that had fallen to the….gasp!…..floor.

Now, I might be a touch overboard, but seriously?  What’s with the floor? I’m not professing to wash it everyday, but I’m almost certain it contains no traces of plague or ebola virus. Fairly certain.

He’s a doctor!  I ask him, after he yelps in panic witnessing the baby put his  baby shoe in his mouth, how many patients he sees in the ICU with dirt poisoning?  Dust coma?

And he’s fixated on Luka’s appetite.  FIX-ated.  If he’s crying, he’s hungry.  If he’s sleepless, it’s because he didn’t get enough supper.  He’s a late walker- must need more food.  He’s convinced that the boy is starving.

“Alex!  Luka fell on a rusty nail!”

“Oh my god!  Did he eat his lunch?”

It’s us isn’t it?  You see it, I know you do.  It’s undeniable.  I get it.  We’re the real threat to our little guy.  How can he possibly survive childhood sandwiched between two lunatics like us?

More stress.



But don’t misunderstand, I’m not ending this post with a sappy, we all have to learn to let go a little, mumbo-jumbo!  I’ll admit I’m over-protective, crazy, laughable even, but relax my vigilance?  Never!

I can’t protect him from everything, but I’ve got my eyes on you, “sweet” creatures of nature.

I’m on to YOU, water fowl.  Make no mistake about it.  You may be all graceful and the darling of ballets and children’s fables, but you make a move towards my baby?

I will take a swan down.  






Heather Bogolyubova

About Heather Bogolyubova

Heather Bogolyubova has an un-pronouncable last name. A Maine native, she's returned to the Pine Tree state after several years in New York. Now, she's a newlywed, has a new baby, a new job, and lots of fancy shoes she can never wear in the snow. The job: Stay-at- home mother and wife. Its hard. She's going to tell you all.