A Casualty

That pretty much sums up life on our bird feeder at the moment -- starlings and parakeets. With an occasional woodpecker, robin or tit thrown in for good measure.

Here's what it looks like when they're all chowing down and squabbling with each other over the food, as they do constantly:

I had to put music with that video because I shot it through a window while Dave was behind me eating potato chips and Olga was sleeping on the couch. You wouldn't have been able to hear the birds, but you would have heard a lot of crunching and snoring. Hence, music.

We had a springtime casualty in the garden yesterday. I was sitting out with Olga, reading my New Yorker while she slept next to me in the sun. The starlings were mobbing the feeder, and I watched one young starling -- so young it was still a bit fluffy and wobbly on its feet -- wander out into the grass and begin preening its new feathers. It was away from the others, and rather oblivious to any danger, it seemed to me. I smiled at how cute it was, but I also thought, "You are making yourself vulnerable."

Then I went back to my magazine, and not ten minutes later Olga appeared beside me with the young starling IN HER MOUTH. I yelled, "No! Drop it!" And she did, but the starling was not in good shape. It seemed whole, and it was breathing, but it was also twitching unnaturally. There was a bit of blood. I set it in a flower pot hoping it would revive, and I checked it over the next hour or so. It was still breathing but it couldn't stand or move much. I called a wildlife rescuer who told me to take it to a vet. I called the vet, and they said they didn't do starlings and I should call a wildlife rescuer.

I moved it to the grass beneath the bird feeder, thinking the other birds would help revive it or at least investigate. No. They ignored it completely and went on jamming their beaks with suet. Birds are cold.

After another hour, it became apparent the starling was suffering. I had to play executioner. Never mind how I did it. I'd rather not relive the memory.

I still can't believe Olga caught it. I mean, she's about 800 years old and arthritic, and although I've seen her go after pigeons, she never pays much attention to the starlings. I knew that bird was vulnerable but I was thinking of hawks and cats, not Olga! The only other time she's killed anything, as far as I know, was when she caught a young squirrel in the cemetery about nine years ago. I guess animals can't help their instincts.

After that rather traumatic morning I mowed the lawn and tried to beat back the jungle a bit. Here's the great hunter on patrol afterwards, looking for her next quarry.

I spent the afternoon scanning my rescued pictures from Saturday, organizing all my other media and reading on the couch. This morning it's cold (50º F) and rainy. Back to work for one final week!