I finally came home from some nerve-wracking grocery shopping and had carefully removed my mask and gloves and was about to strip away my “compromised” clothing and hop in the shower when Stephen, standing behind the glass door separating the foyer from the living room, informed me that he had just watched the black squirrel (the one that lives in our yard and periodically tries to kill me) get into a fight with a grey squirrel of unknown origin.
“Who won?” I asked, instantly curious. “Our squirrel or the other squirrel?”
“Our squirrel,” said Stephen.
“Good,” I replied.
Because even though I dislike our squirrel (and also, it’s periodically, I’m more than sure, tried to kill me), it’s still, at the end of the day, our squirrel, and doesn’t it therefore seem that some solidarity, some sense of nobleized loyalty is order?
It’s not personal at all. Trust me.
A family of robins moved into my yard. Two adults, two fat fledglings, one just a little fatter than the other.
The fledglings eat constantly, and it is a wonder how many worms the adults manage to find to feed them day after day after day.
I was thrilled at first. These delightful visitors, my guests, evidence of life happening!
And then the lawn furniture. The patio, the spot under the tree where I like to read.
Bombarded. Destroyed with the collective birdshit of two adults, two fledglings, one just a little fatter than the other.
That fat little bastard, who eats all the worms then perches over my spot, more than seems necessary.
Do you see me, little bird? Can you see me watching you? I know what you are doing. I see you.
So it occurs to me that the robins have perhaps worn out their welcome. They have turned theory into practice and ruined it with consequence.
And of course, they haven’t done anything.
They are birds.
That is what I tell myself now, because I can.