THE BIRDFEEDER FROM HELL – Oshawa/Whitby This Week 2006
Last year, very dear friends gave me a gift that keeps on giving, indeed…a tri-silo, copper and glass, squirrel-proof birdfeeder, suspended from an elegant wrought-iron frame. This gift has turned into the ornithological equivalent of Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds”.
Were pterodactyl’s to swoop down on our ornithological sanctuary, even at the risk of terrorizing our miniature dachshund Schautzie, I could not be happier – Tippi Hedren be damned. “Abscond with the ornithological buffet” I say!
You and I, and most mortals, sleep until about six to seven a.m. Birds, however, have no such inclination. They are sentinels of the dawn, and it is their job to awaken humanity at the precise moment that even a scintilla of refracted light peers over the furthest horizon imaginable. This, they do with irritating alacrity.
I have, regardless of where I have lived, patronized doves – no longer! Not to overstate the obvious, but doves are the equivalent of blonde jokes, pretty but dumb; dumber than a post to be precise…I mean, what other bird likes to nest on roads and driveways and has the flight lift-off acceleration of a C-5 Galaxy Starlifter, not many I can tell you.
One day in September, no less than twenty-nine doves simultaneously perched on, or around the feeder – it was the United Nations of dovedom. Do you know how much dove fecal matter that represents? That’s a lot of dove poo, more goo than the love I have for the dove!
Schautzie, my aforementioned tube-shaped canine, discovered, that she too, likes bird feed. I, her proprietor, discovered, that bird feed does not like her. Consequently, a fence of trellis was erected to keep the wiener away from the seeds, all in the name of bowel harmony.
On a good day, the birds will siphon off five pounds of bird feed faster than a Vegas tourist can empty a ninety-nine cent buffet. I am contemplating growing my own field of sunflowers to sustain the bird dietary demands. I am, it seems, facing extortion, and, possibly, bankruptcy from the ornithological mafia and their leader, the “Birdfather”.
I store the birdfeed in the backyard, in a large rugged plastic container that requires Herculean strength to pry off the lid, unless of course, you are a raccoon the size of a Buick Ninety-Eight. Mr. Buick Raccoon dropped by at two a.m., and, upon our mutual confrontation, I decided my claws and teeth were no match for his. The birdfeed is now stored in the garage.
Recently, the Durham region experienced winds over a two-day period, in excess of ninety kilometres an hour. Even a fence of trellis is no match for sixty mile an hour winds. The winds catapulted the trellis into the birdfeeder, toppling it and the support pole. Nylon pan-ties used to connect the four corners of the trellis actually snapped in two; there were three ties for each corner!
Today, April 2, 2006, I ventured forth into the murky cesspool of soggy birdfeed where my lawn once resided, four more pieces of trellis in hand, and super strong pan ties at my disposal. I reinforced the four walls of trellis by fastening the new trellis to the existing pieces. I then staked each wall and attached the trellis wall to the stake with the pan-ties.
Turning my attention to the feeder, I hammered the support pole into a fresh spot of earth, the rusted support cable snapped (it was not copper or stainless steel wire), the newly replenished feeder crashed to the ground, then promptly spewed its contents.
Oh, and our dear friends? The state of the art, microprocessor controlled birdbath featuring a bidet and water purification system, should arrive at their home next week. I am salivating. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.