What do you do when treated like a bird brain?
We have all asked for assistance at a store and been looked down at by a clerk in a way that implies you are too dumb to tie your shoes. When that happens you can walk out of the store in disgust or give the offending employee a piece of your mind but that usually results in you not getting what you asked them for. Management seldom gets involved because they don’t want to deal with replacing a minimum wage employee.
But, in today’s service economy we have come to expect this. I only mention it because as a class I find this truly annoying.
But, I am battling real bird brains. At least the birds think I am.
My back yard is boxed in by arborvitae, the home and nursery for many, many mature and immature robins. Normally we live a rather symbiotic relationship – they worm my yard and I water the yard which drives up the worms. We enjoy them hopping around, they enjoy a cozy home and free food.
But whenever I go into the backyard I get a free display of “the wounded bird”. The “wounded bird” is a dance performed by a parenting robin designed to draw an attacker away from a nest by offering the appearance of a cheap meal. It begins with a short jump from the arborvitae in front of the supposed carnivore and several short hops leading away to entice the hungry. Sometimes they will extend a limp wing (as if no one would notice that the darn thing was flapping a minute ago).
It’s not the parenting instincts that have begun to get to me, it’s the constant repetition.
Far be it from one robin to question my lust for pollo pequeno, but there are five or six nests in the arborvitae. As I mow there is a regular parade of these lethargic dancers; all hopping and wing dipping in front of my mower.
These fellows are a bit mercenary, they only dance as far as the next nest and then let me either stop and munch or chase the next bird as I see fit. I always choose to chase.
The mower makes several passes near the arborvitae as I mow from the outside to the center of the yard and each time these dances occur. They ate cute during the first mowing, amusing during the next, and road hazards from then on.
Sure, you Mom’s out there might disparage this lack of sympathy but lets face it; the thought of making Robin Tartar with the mower is not the highlight of an otherwise bucolic pastime.
Besides, after the first pass, and as I move further away, is it really necessary to do the dance? Is there some Momma robin tossing out Daddy as I near? “Go, honey, make like you’re fat ass is something tasty.”
As each pass gets further away I wonder if Pappa Robin comes back to herald his accomplishment. I have long suspected (long being the time the time on the mower or subsequent blowing of the grass). Actually I suspect that he crows his accomplishment and exclaims how he tricked the dim witted fellow on the mower. That just pisses me off.
So here I am, bothered by a group of over protective robins. Who’s the birdbrain now?
We have all asked for assistance at a store and been looked down at by a clerk in a way that implies you are too dumb to tie your shoes. When that happens you can walk out of the store in disgust or give the offending employee a piece of your mind but that usually results in you not getting what you asked them for. Management seldom gets involved because they don’t want to deal with replacing a minimum wage employee.
But, in today’s service economy we have come to expect this. I only mention it because as a class I find this truly annoying.
But, I am battling real bird brains. At least the birds think I am.
My back yard is boxed in by arborvitae, the home and nursery for many, many mature and immature robins. Normally we live a rather symbiotic relationship – they worm my yard and I water the yard which drives up the worms. We enjoy them hopping around, they enjoy a cozy home and free food.
But whenever I go into the backyard I get a free display of “the wounded bird”. The “wounded bird” is a dance performed by a parenting robin designed to draw an attacker away from a nest by offering the appearance of a cheap meal. It begins with a short jump from the arborvitae in front of the supposed carnivore and several short hops leading away to entice the hungry. Sometimes they will extend a limp wing (as if no one would notice that the darn thing was flapping a minute ago).
It’s not the parenting instincts that have begun to get to me, it’s the constant repetition.
Far be it from one robin to question my lust for pollo pequeno, but there are five or six nests in the arborvitae. As I mow there is a regular parade of these lethargic dancers; all hopping and wing dipping in front of my mower.
These fellows are a bit mercenary, they only dance as far as the next nest and then let me either stop and munch or chase the next bird as I see fit. I always choose to chase.
The mower makes several passes near the arborvitae as I mow from the outside to the center of the yard and each time these dances occur. They ate cute during the first mowing, amusing during the next, and road hazards from then on.
Sure, you Mom’s out there might disparage this lack of sympathy but lets face it; the thought of making Robin Tartar with the mower is not the highlight of an otherwise bucolic pastime.
Besides, after the first pass, and as I move further away, is it really necessary to do the dance? Is there some Momma robin tossing out Daddy as I near? “Go, honey, make like you’re fat ass is something tasty.”
As each pass gets further away I wonder if Pappa Robin comes back to herald his accomplishment. I have long suspected (long being the time the time on the mower or subsequent blowing of the grass). Actually I suspect that he crows his accomplishment and exclaims how he tricked the dim witted fellow on the mower. That just pisses me off.
So here I am, bothered by a group of over protective robins. Who’s the birdbrain now?
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