Paging Mr Hitchcock; Ms Hedren's Replacement Waiting

A placid Monday morning in our respective home offices until -

An unearthly screeeech from the downstairs pierces the calm.  SnapDog, probably the world's second largest orange cat, leaps straight up into the air and tears out of my office and down the stairs.  Another shriek, this time one more familiar "What was THAT?!?!" cries the missus.

Now there is thumping and banging and flapping - I come out into the hallway to the top of the stairs to see a large black bird fly headlong into the living room window, from the inside.  I also see said cat leaping and writhing, then he flies into the window, too.

Apparently this poor winged sojourner has tumbled down the chimbly and emerged into the house.  It seems to want out.

The missus encourages me in unambiguous language to bring the situation to an early conclusion.  I point out that this is the highlight of SnapDog's year, fershur, and it would be a damn shame to waste free entertainment, and that her language would embarass a pirate, but alas, this logic goes wasted.  She retreats behind a closed door, mightily imploring me therefrom to, for God's sake, DO SOMETHING.

Armed with a bath towel, I approach the bird's position, now behind the curtain, while Mr Fuzzbutt considers his next attack.  I gently peel the raven (?) from the curtain and call to the Queen of Cowardice to come!  See!  and open the door.  Tippy-toeing and whimpering, she descends, holds the front door open.  "Hurry up!  Come on, get it out of here!!"  okokokok, I'm going. 

After almost 35 years, she had to know what was going happen next.  There's something about a girl flinching, jumping and squealing that just never gets old.