Friday, June 15, 2007
Blackbird Pie
(with apologies to Bill Bryson)
I think that most people who know me would consider me a relatively gentle soul. I mean, I have been known to terminate bluebottles, wasps and ants with extreme prejudice, but generally speaking I rarely wish ill on any one or anything for very long. Even as I write this I've had to stop and rescue a sparrow from the claws of the cat. (Not enough sparrows around if you ask me). True, I sometimes, for a split second wish that that idiot going too fast on the roads would wrap themselves around a lamp-post, but I tend to repent within a second or two. I wouldn't want to see it happen, or to have to take the funeral after all.
But these last few days are an exception. I have so longed for air-gun, a catapult or a BB gun. And what has turned the meek and mild Dr Moose into a potential killer, you may ask. The answer, as you might have deduced from the title of this piece is blackbirds. Strange, but true.
One pair have nested close to the back door, you see. In a tree just over the shed. And then there's another pair somewhere close by. So if a male blackbird is not "chuck-chuck-chuck"-ing through the glass of the utility room door at the slightest movement, or defecating messily over the swing while engaged in a eyeball-locking exercise through the kitchen window, then he's scrapping with the other male blackbird in a noisy turf war.
That is, of course, until the cat-to-whom-this human-belongs turns up, whereupon all conflicts are put on hold and the poor feline is subjected to a double dive-bombing attack.
And all this, of course, accompanied by an insistent "chuck-chuck-chuck"-ing through most of the daylight and evening hours. It is, as they say, driving me to distraction.
Said feline is a clever one, but instead of doing my dirty business for me and bringing me a balckbird on a platter, has resorted to sheltering indoors for prolonged periods of time and seeking a lap at the most inappropriate moments.
So if you hear a story on the BBC about a Vicar being had up by the RSPB, that'll be me.
Now, I must go. I wonder where GLW has hidden the spare knicker elastic and LM has put her marbles? Failing that I'm off to ASDA to buy a water cannon and give the bird a bath it won't forget in a hurry!
I think that most people who know me would consider me a relatively gentle soul. I mean, I have been known to terminate bluebottles, wasps and ants with extreme prejudice, but generally speaking I rarely wish ill on any one or anything for very long. Even as I write this I've had to stop and rescue a sparrow from the claws of the cat. (Not enough sparrows around if you ask me). True, I sometimes, for a split second wish that that idiot going too fast on the roads would wrap themselves around a lamp-post, but I tend to repent within a second or two. I wouldn't want to see it happen, or to have to take the funeral after all.
But these last few days are an exception. I have so longed for air-gun, a catapult or a BB gun. And what has turned the meek and mild Dr Moose into a potential killer, you may ask. The answer, as you might have deduced from the title of this piece is blackbirds. Strange, but true.
One pair have nested close to the back door, you see. In a tree just over the shed. And then there's another pair somewhere close by. So if a male blackbird is not "chuck-chuck-chuck"-ing through the glass of the utility room door at the slightest movement, or defecating messily over the swing while engaged in a eyeball-locking exercise through the kitchen window, then he's scrapping with the other male blackbird in a noisy turf war.
That is, of course, until the cat-to-whom-this human-belongs turns up, whereupon all conflicts are put on hold and the poor feline is subjected to a double dive-bombing attack.
And all this, of course, accompanied by an insistent "chuck-chuck-chuck"-ing through most of the daylight and evening hours. It is, as they say, driving me to distraction.
Said feline is a clever one, but instead of doing my dirty business for me and bringing me a balckbird on a platter, has resorted to sheltering indoors for prolonged periods of time and seeking a lap at the most inappropriate moments.
So if you hear a story on the BBC about a Vicar being had up by the RSPB, that'll be me.
Now, I must go. I wonder where GLW has hidden the spare knicker elastic and LM has put her marbles? Failing that I'm off to ASDA to buy a water cannon and give the bird a bath it won't forget in a hurry!
Labels: Life
¶ 9:14 am
