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You know what they say about early birds and worms, and this
little peckerwood spends all his early hours and damn near all his
hours of ANY kind obsessing on our Buick.
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… or maybe Went to War With a Buick. Here's the deal:
Last Tuesday Lee and I were getting ready to leave for
North Bend
for Lee's Mom's 87th birthday. Waiting outside, I noticed a
robin hopping around and around our car. Every thirty
seconds or so he'd stop, cock his head to one side, and fly at the side of the
car. Then hop hop hop again, pause, and another leap. He'd flap his wings hard
and seemed to be trying to fly right through the metal. (I'm pretty sure it's a
male, though with robins it isn't as easy to tell as with some other birds.)
We investigated, and noticed that there is a three-inch wide band of shiny
chrome running all around the car, about a foot or so off the ground. It seemed
pretty clear he was seeing his reflection.
I figured one of five things is happening:
1) Robins aren't any more sure of the sex of another robin than I am. The
distorted image of a robin looks like the most adorable girl (or boy) he (or
she) ever saw. He (or she) wants to coo sweet nothings in her (or his) ear and
build her (or him) a little nest that nestles where the roses bloom.
2) He believes this is another male robin. He's staked out our driveway as his
territory, and he's going to fight until the intruder goes away.
3) He's perfectly aware that he's seeing himself. He likes it so much that he
keeps flying up to get a better view of his manliness, flexing his wings like a
body builder.
4) It feels GOOD to whang one's head upside of a sedan 1000 times a day.
5) His name is Brucie, he makes his living decorating the interiors of other
robins' nests, and he thinks this the most adorable boy he's ever seen.
We didn't get back until late Wednesday night. Got up Thursday morning … and he
was back, going around and around the car, hopping and pecking.
It is now Monday, seven days after we first observed him, and he's still at it.
If we go into town he flies off, but as soon as we return he flies right back
down.
He doesn't seem to be doing any damage to the paint job. And, as far as I can
tell, he doesn't seem to be injuring himself—though who am I to say how many
blows to the head a robin can take and not get any more bird-brained than
robins are naturally?
It was funny at first—well, I guess it's still funny, though it wouldn't be
if I went out and found him dead of broken bones or starvation. You know what
they say about early birds and worms, and this little peckerwood spends all his
early hours and damn near all his hours of ANY kind obsessing on our Buick.
Worms are the main part of a robin's diet, and I'll be damned if I can see
where he finds the time to stalk any of them.
We thought of putting masking tape over the chrome, but that would be a lot of
tape, a lot of work, and we'd die of shame if we didn't take it all off before
we drove it. I thought of maybe printing out some pictures of owls (we hear
owls hooting all through the night out here) and taping them around the car.
Maybe we could buy some doll clothes, stuff them with grass clippings, and
erect a few scarerobins. Or some second-hand
Barbies at a
Goodwill...
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