Rural Routes, Blog Version

For once, the three young boys in our condo development had no interest in my dog. Usually they want to pat him, ask his name and his age and hold his leash.

But this day all their attention was concentrated on the caterpillar one of them was carrying.

“The mommy bird died and the babies have nothing to eat,” the oldest told me. “We found this worm for them.”

Technically, a caterpillar is not a worm. But birds are very fond of them; a caterpillar is a nutritious protein-rich meal.

I wished the boys luck and hoped that the motherless birds would survive.

The incident reminded me of others from my childhood.

Whenever we found an ailing bird – one that could not fly to get away from us or was temporarily stunned after impact with a window, for example – my brothers, sisters and I would try to save it. Our efforts were seldom successful.

That meant that we had to have a funeral.

Eddy match boxes made good coffins and we used spoons from the kitchen to dig a hole in the front lawn. We would put the box in the hole, cover it with dirt and grass and lay dandelions over top in floral tribute.

Unfortunately, our gravedigger skills were scant and the holes we dug were not always deep enough. The burial mound that resulted was an impediment to grass cutting and our mother often retrieved the match box, disposing of it before running the mower over the spot where it had been.

Another bird story comes from my pre-children days.

The excitement of the week was going to the door to find three young boys (our nephews) clutching three even younger birds in their hands.

“We’re going to raise them,” they said. They demanded water for the birds to drink and grain for them to eat. The birds fluttered weakly in their hands.

After about fifteen minutes of dowsing beaks in water and attempting to get full-size grain down pint-size gullets, one of the boys noticed something amiss.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked the bird, giving it a shake or two. The bird’s head lolled indifferently.

A funeral service was arranged. We found a box to fit the tiny creature and intoned suitable words of grief and condolence.

Casualty number two occurred shortly thereafter, but bird number three was tougher than the rest. It hung on for another hour or two.  The boys made it a bed of Kleenex in an ice cream pail and let it rest on the front doorstep.

Supper intervened.  When next they went to check the bird’s health, there was a loud cry.

“Stop it, you bad cat,” the voices said.

The Cat ate the bird. Not bad for an animal that never asks for Meow Mix by name and only reluctantly accepts table scraps.

The Great Bird Venture was over; The Cat was in the doghouse.

“I don’t know whether to be nice to him as usual or be mean to him because he ate my best friend,” said one of the three boys.

The Landlocked Owl

My owl solar light has been taken over by a Virginia creeper, although the light in its eyes continues to shine in the nighttime. I find it rather, well, creepy.