“Groooooooss!” I called out to my mom, as I got out of the pool at her house the other day. “I think you have mice. Take a look.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” she replied, annoyed, as we gazed at what appeared to be rodent droppings on the terra cotta tile.

“But what’s that tweeting I keep hearing?” I asked.

Turns out, hummingbird poop looks a lot like mouse poop. There’s a nest with two baby hummingbirds in the right ficus outside my parents’  kitchen window.

“Gaga, you’re a regular Snow White!” Ray said, cracking me up. It was pretty amazing.

No credit to Gaga — she didn’t even know they were there.

Actually, I take that back. My parents deserve credit for not having cats. This morning I found the fourth baby bird in four weeks, massacred on the kitchen floor. At least this one was dead. The first two weren’t, which was no fun for Ray. He’s on bird-mouse-rat-lizard patrol. I just scream.

This morning, though, I barely flinched. After 10-plus years, I’m finally getting used to it.

This spring, Lulu the striped mutt cat has preferred a mix of birds and mice. The first bird of the season — a full grown, terrified dove, unscathed except for some lost feathers – greeted us from the shelf over the kitchen sink when we arrived home from Easter brunch.

And the onslaught has continued. It usually ends when the first real heat arrives, and that tends to happen in early May. But it’s been eerily, unseasonably cool here, downright chilly at times (albeit in the middle of the night) and so the birding goes on. I really don’t care for birds any more than I care for cats — but still, it’s disturbing, having my kitchen be the killing fields.

At least I know the hummingbirds are safe with Gaga. Er,  Snow White.