I have tried to learn all I could to correctly operate my Kidde fire/CO alarm, including how to troubleshoot a shrieking device, but nothing, short of physically yanking those birds off their perch, could put a stop to their soul-splitting chirp.
Calling a repairman might solve the damn problem immediately, but I refused to take that ridiculous step. There is limit to helplessness.
If I couldn’t figure out how to mute the sound, then I had to learn to get used to it. Come now, on and off for over twenty years I have learned to endure many types of sounds, from the hair-raising wails of an infant to my husband’s wall-shattering snores. I had slept through the barking of dogs and survived my sister’s–the one we nicknamed Radio Bolsa–ceaseless and senseless chattering. How much harder could it be? All I need to do was to psych myself into thinking they are the lovely beats of a metronome dancing to the rhythm of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Or imagine waking up to a typewriter! Ding, a line has ended. And another, ding, and another, the more dings the more joys.
In the end, even my optimism gave up trying. I could not pretend I hear anything else, other than the beeping of two alarms, like a heart monitor by a patient’s bed, measuring his life, announcing his death. It was time to call customer service, although I doubted that the voice on the other side of the line would be of human.
I was desperate enough to risk playing the loopy-loop game with a robot.