A notice to birds: with fledglings come responsibilities
Now, I always thought birds were really clever. I mean, they do all that migrating business, don’t they. Our bunch of yobbo house martins will no doubt come back to piss us all off again next year by squawking outside our window from about 3am, attacking me while I’m hanging out the washing and pooing all over the place - it’s a pretty amazing feat (the migrating I mean, not the pooing) - one which must, surely take some brain power.
Lately, though, I’ve been beginning to wonder. Take procreation, for example. I mean, a mama bird has to do some serious preparation in order to rear her chicks, does she not? There’s all that nest building, sitting on eggs, guarding against predators… and then all the feeding, etc. And then it comes to fledging, and what does she do? She lets the poor things plop out onto the boat road or the field and flap helplessly around until they’re gobbled up by a very pleased greyhound.
And I for one could do without having to keep going in there to rescue them. It’s not pleasant, I can tell you, rummaging around between the stinky jaws of death trying to fish out a wiggling bird. This afternoon I actually half trod on a fledgling which then flapped up inside my fleece from whence it was ‘rescued’ by a very enthusiastic Bert. Not only was this very tickly, but I then had to do my countryside duty, lever his jaws apart and remove the poor, startled yoke. Bert was dead disappointed, I can tell you. And I chipped my nail varnish too.
So birds: do yourself a favour and fledge your little darlings someplace a bit better thought out. This is the third time this week I’ve had to delve into Bert’s mouth and pluck out one of your babies. And after all that effort do you really want them to start out on their little journey to adulthood completely traumatised and drenched in greyhound drool? And it’s no good sitting up on the telephone pole squawking at me either, it’s not my fault you’re not taking your parenting duties seriously. Tsk.
Also, those crazy penguins… why do they not swim to the carribean to have the babies.. be a damn sight warmer, and it wouldn’t matter if the dropped the egg on the ground would it !
And I’m with you on the penguins – if I could get myself to the caribbean then I wouldn’t be freezing my bum off on the ice either!
Oh look! A pretty picture?!
I have tied a supermarket basket to my washing line and all fledglings get put into it in the vain hope that the parents will come and rescue them cos I’m tired of trying to rear them.
Crazy birds!!!
Kate: A supermarket basket, young lady? Did you pinch it?
I’m laughing at the way you wrote this, but you’re right – you’d think they’d shepherd their babies away from the Greyhound Jaws of Death, wouldn’t you?
“Eurgh, what smells in here? Oh it’s you, Smelbert.”
And them proceed to jostle him out of the nest chanting
“Smelly, smelly Smelbert”
Kate: Let you off then!
Thrifty: “And them proceed to jostle him out of the nest chanting
“Smelly, smelly Smelbert””
Baino: Ooh a doggy snob? I’m impressed! x
Then again, I AM babysitting De Nephew today…
Can I borrow your dog?