“Master Sparrow! It’s eating our nuts!”
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” Master S told us to fly up in its face.”
“But it went right on chomping?”
“It was sitting on our wheelbarrow!”
“How did it get its fat ass up there?”
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“That’s rather unkind talk!”
“Do you call me fat behind my back?”
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“Fat? We’re not fat!”
Rain may have darkened their feathers. I thought them quite handsome.
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Most of the other birds are gone, for now at least, so the Sparrows have moved back in to their favourite bush in front of the kitchen window.
On warm afternoons they may be seen disporting themselves in the water trays, happily enjoying being back.
Good question: Where were they while Starlings and Red Wings and all their juveniles took over?
Pro-creating, apparently!
To watch these little birds is such a simple pleasure and they always make me laugh.
The other day I found a dead bird in much the same place I had found another a few weeks ago. I laid that one in tall grass where other creatures could feed from its remains.
Surely this could not be the same little corpse? It was certainly quite long dead, so maybe it had been dragged back out.
It was in the same spot as before.
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It was less troubling, to believe it was the same bird and not another death. I left it to complete its regeneration.
Next day, I was surprised to find only the tiniest trace remaining. I picked it up and brought it inside.
So here’s a question:
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When I find feathers, I often pick them up. I have quite a collection.
Yesterday I brought in a tiny rhinotheca, or maxillary beak. Grant thinks it creepy.
He says feathers are different. True, they don’t necessarily come from dead birds, but I know for a fact many do. So is keeping a beak creepy?
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It seemed curious that the rhinotheca alone remained. Not a feather even.
Birds have always touched me. They are special, so very precious. Do they bring messages? I could easily believe so, though I am not clever enough to interpret them.
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Today I was glad to see the sparrows getting along quite well with a groundhog baby, just a midget compared to its pudgy parents.
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Grant was too busy yesterday and told me I should leave this cricket alone as I was likely to injure it if I attempted to catch it.
He was right. It’s why I don’t. Usually I can encourage an insect onto a piece of paper for transport. Not this chap.
But I didn’t want it to get stepped on or eaten by a cat, so I herded it bit by bit to the door where I urged it out while persuading Dee Dee to remain in.
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Now that we have this “open-door policy”, the cats seem to think they ought to be able to come and go as they choose.
The doors are open for 15 minutes, twice a day only.
The new system if you could call it that, is for the front and patio door to be open.
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This is because Willow may want to come in via the patio. But the front door must be open in case she selects that way.
Methinks she is smart enough to work it out but by all means…
Yesterday Lily demonstrated the deficiency in this by entering through the patio door, only to re-exit from the front.
It’s all a little ridiculous. When the cats get directed in I am asked to monitor for the stragglers.
Sometimes we have to go searching. Then, if you happen to be the one who locates the delinquent, you have to go searching for the other searcher.
If I’ve lost you, I’ve proved my point.
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The weather has collapsed now, but this morning it was lovely, a nice day for taking 2 cats to their annual appointments.
Elderly cats: senior blood panels.
Serious issues can be avoided with early diagnosis, so we get the tests.
The fee gives me serious indigestion.
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The pink flower is called Joe Pye-weed.
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The pretty pink flowers by the pond remain, “pretty pink” although PlantNet insists they are Phlox.
So maybe they are.
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Muffin and Penny did not issue a single sound and we proceeded to the vet in grateful silence. Often, the protests are deafening.
When we got there, I remained outside as the consult rooms are small and stuffy.
For routine appointments I was superfluous.
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It gave me a chance to see other pets coming for their appointments, including this cheerful girl.
The clinic parking lot is surrounded by huge planters full of colourful flowers so I made the circuit, collecting more pictures.
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28th August 1964 was the day I emigrated to the USA.
In some ways it feels like yesterday.
Thank you, Carolyn for the lovely post! Pictures beautiful, as always.
Joanna
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Who is this Joe Pye? And why has he weed in that field?
Good question! I must fined out!
Joseph Shauquethqueat. A paramount Mohican Chief c late 1700-1800, Stockbridge Mass. I daresay you looked it up!
Haha, when those sparrows are wet, they look awfully messy 😁. Hmm, I wouldn’t mind picking up some feathers either … but a beak, don’t think so. Front door in and out by the back door – that’s exactly what our dogs did (luckily the garden was fenced). Wow, you have been a USA citizen for so long … what do one say on a day like this? Happy emigration day?
Saving the beak of a dead bird does sound a bit strange. I don’t think it’s creepy though.
1964, that’s a long time to live in another country. Do you still have an English accent? Not sure if I have asked you that before.
Best wishes, Pete.
People here always say they love my accent. In England they took me for Canadian, probably. I think it changes according to who I am in company with. I would love to challenge one of those people who believes they can pin down any accent. It’s a bit West Country, a bit London and I’m sure a lot American. My aunt came over in 1944 and sounded British till she died in 1999. I’m sure working for BA made a difference.