It’s the end of fruit blossom season hereabouts; the last of the cherries are
performing a grand finale, oaks are coming into leaf, tulips are ceding the
stage to lilac and the like. It is also power washing season. The neighbor
who once called us in California to complain about our dog barking for two
hours hired a crew who blasted all around her house for most of a sunny
Saturday. Sensitive to noise as she is, I’m sure she vacated the premises,
passed the day somewhere more tranquil.
Did you know that dandelions continue on their life’s path after they are dead?
You pull the whole plant and cast the detritus into a pile, intending to
gather it into the garden recycling bin after the full one has been emptied on
a Tuesday. While lying on the ground, the flowers turn into seed. “We are the
irreducible dandelion, king of the jungle.” The solution is to give the pile
to chickens, who are very appreciative of Spring’s weeds. No doubt they’re
spreading the seeds, passing them through their digestive system, but somehow
no dandelions survive within the fowl domain.
“Oooooh, salad! It’s been a long winter.”
“Love the fresh stuff!”
They gobble it down.
Sad news this week; Cheddar was killed, the first bird we’ve lost to predation.
Apparently after I left for work Hamish carried the body up to the house and
then back down into the woods. She’d been killed the previous evening. She
was not attacked from above; before they were locked in for the night,
something small and on the ground grabbed her leg, possibly a possum. I closed
a hole in the fence where one might have entered.
Next morning Pecorino’s response was to head out and over that fence. No point
staying in a killing ground. Later, when I found them gathered around the
corpse I asked if they wanted to sing a hymn or something before I cleared her
away.
“No,” said Mimo. “Why?”
“Because?”
In the evening they gathered by the kitchen door as usual—it’s a safe spot—and
then called and called, warning Cheddar that it was time to come home. I don’t
know if they didn’t recognize the corpse as a bird or maybe they had already
forgotten what they’d seen. Possibly it was some ritual expression of grief.
It was certainly unprecedented.
The following day they asked me where Cheddar was.
“Gone to Malawi,” fell out of my mouth before I could think.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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