Many of you who have read my blog for over a year remember my writings about my slut girlfriend bird. She sits outside my bedroom window and screws whatever comes by from sunup to sundown. Loud, squawking, jungle sex. The inevitable result is little baby slut birds. Now, for whatever reason, the nest is built inside some sort of a stovepipe in the corner of my balcony. I don't know why there's a stovepipe. It goes into the balcony above me. But I digress. The nest is up there.
Friday night, while
I decide that the St. Francis of Assisi thing to do would be to find a small box, gather up some of the nesting material (disposing of the dead kin), and scooping this poor fallen soul into the box, keeping it nearby so that all the birds that come by will hear it's incessant chirping and take care of it. I checked on it late that night and it seemed to be doing well--asleep and breathing. The next morning, it wasn't. I felt badly, but at least I tried. Even chewed up some worms to feed it, but I was too late.
So imagine my surprise, and sense of redemption, when I heard another chirping coming from the balcony. Was it the ghost of my newly lost friend? No, it was a sibling! A couple of days older, and a little more lively. Kept trying to get into the house. So I decided to try to do the right thing. I got the box again and cornered it. It found an escape route though.
Notice the little drainy thing? It scooted right out, flapped its non-existant wings, bounced off the concrete, into the grass. I watched it for a little bit. It didn't move. And then, like a miracle, it shook the cobwebs out, looked left, looked right, and scooted to the first bush it could find. And it just hid there and chirped. I went down there this morning to check on it. It died where it had hid.
So now I'm sort of depressed. Then early this afternoon, I hear another chirp. Yep, another one. This one looked a little more developed, and was definitely the fiestiest of the bunch. So yes, I grabbed the box, cornered the thing and got it into the box. This time, I put the box in the corner up by the stovepipe thingy, and waited. This one was not a happy camper. It scratched, chirped and bounced around and raised all sorts of commotion. It must have worked. I saw it poke its head out of the box, other birds were stopping by and acknowledging it, and things finally felt right with the world. Until the gust of wind.
I looked out, and there's no box. Out on the lawn, there's the box, and all the nesting stuff clumped out there. I figure that it was a healthy bird, and the fall probably didn't kill it, so I'd run out there while it was dazed and scoop it up again. And as I ran around the corner of the building, I hear them. The roar of twin John Deere riding lawn mowers. I'd like to say it ain't so, but you've guessed it. I didn't see it, but the little dark patch of nest in the last picture is all that was left.
Three days. Three birds. Three deaths. I am a bad person.
"So, Os," you ask (please note the anagramism of that sentence!). "Where's the touch of cute?" Well, as I came home from working in an unairconditioned office all afternoon Saturday, I had to drop some music off to someone. As I approached a stop sign, I saw two cute baby bunnies frolicking with each other! I sat and watched for about 5 minutes as I watched these two hopping on each other, chasing each other and blissfully enjoying their young lives. All I could do at the time is think about their birdy friends....
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