The Northern Mockingbirds that have nested in the little tree on our deck have successfully hatched, which has upped the ante in the "who really owns this deck?" debate.
The birds have gone from doing what they're named for, projecting a wide range of calls that often mimic other bird calls and assorted noises borrowed from the neighborhood, to sounds that suggest "Red Alert!", and grow to "BACK OFF HUMAN!" the nanosecond I venture out there with my triple espresso.
Sure enough, there are two chicks with gaping mouths that look to account for half of their overall size, so the hatching was successful. This means that the parents are occupied in an apparently permanent cycle of catching bugs and depositing them back in the aforementioned gigantic beaks.
They clearly can sense that Mrs Page is the easier target, because every time she goes out there either [and now I'll slip seamlessly into ornithological lingo] the daddy bird or the mommy bird swoops down and grabs at the "Small. Hand Wash Only" tag Pavey always seems to have stuck out from her tee-shirt. General merriment ensues, with the birds switching to "Ha! Got the bitch!" calls, me snickering and Pav waving her arms about like she's just been set on fire.
Meanwhile, our cats persevere with their distinctive "Look, there's another bird" sounds. Those sounds are so unusual we asked the guy at the SPCA what they meant. He said they loosely translate as "I want to kill you, bird", but he was only a Saturday volunteer and wasn't sporting an "I speak cat" badge, so who can be sure?
No doubt the newly-hatched chicks will have found their voices in a few days, and I'll be back with an appropriate rant.
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