For the birds.

Dog Izzy and I often have wildlife encounters on our little adventures. Usually squirrels and deer, although we've had near-misses with skunks and racoons and foxes, and that bear I mentioned a couple of weeks ago is still hanging around. Izzy usually has no interest in any of them. 

Birds being birds, one usually does not get close enough to them to have a tête-à-tête. But then we came upon this guy. 

He (I'm assuming it's a male, since it's got some color) ain't from around here. You may know what he is. I had to look it up. This is a budgie, native to Australia. Specifically this appears to be a recessive pied budgerigar, unless I miss my guess, going by the experts at the Budgie Academy. And since he didn't hitchhike here from Adelaide, I suppose he is someone's escaped pet bird. 

I have a feeling he's not going to make it in the wild. He was picking at something by the road and failed to notice the giant nose of my dog until it was close enough to inhale some feathers. Then, alarmed, the bird flew off like an arrow, peeping in panic. I'm glad his wings had not been clipped, although that would explain how he escaped -- one seldom sees pet birds shinnying down drainpipes. 

Can he survive a New York winter? Can he find food to his taste? Can he avoid being eaten by our local predators? Will he die pining for the scrublands, unable to find a mate in this asphalt jungle? Good luck, pal -- they say everything in Australia is trying to kill everything else, so I hope that means you have some good survival techniques. 

This crow, for one, did not. 

I'm not sure I've ever seen a dead crow before. They seem to be too annoying to die. And yet, this one is not sunbathing. The funny thing is, with all the scavengers around here, including its fellow crows, nothing has gone after it but the bugs. Maybe crow meat just sucks. 

Even the homeowners upon whose property the crow rests aren't interested in getting rid of the corpse. Or, as I have found from these folks on occasion, they are oblivious to anything outside their home beyond the walkway and the driveway. 

Package for you!

Well, if they give the grass another cut before the fall gets fully engaged, they're in for a surprise. I might have done a good deed and performed the last rites myself, but the wasps had gotten involved in the corpus and I'm sensitive to yellowjacket venom.

Man has always envied birds for their flight, but it's not an easy life. You have to eat a lot to survive and power that flight -- half their own weight each day -- and everything is still trying to kill you, including other birds. I think I'd even rather take my chances with Boeing. 

May calling.

It's been a rainy and very buggy May, but I'm still glad I'm not freezing out there anymore. I still have not put away my winter coat, which hangs on the rack by the door. I don't trust this weather. 

But as I say, buggy as hell, with many skeeter bites and gnat encounters already. I caught some yellow jackets up to no good. Every year they find some place on the house they've never nested before, and proceed to nest there. This year it was under the second-story gutter. Well, I and my hose took care of them hive turkeys. 

I am a Cat 5 hurricane on wasps' nests. 

Been a really great year for the creepy-crawlies too, like these ninjas, rappeling from the trees:

"I'm going to land in your hair!"

On that note, I had the world's smallest grasshopper land on me, playing "My Heart Bleeds for You" on his world's smallest Cricket-in-Times-Square violin: 

I guess it's been good for the birds, though. And on that note, the dog and I got a couple of visitors while sitting on the porch a few days ago. I have seen plenty of birds perch on the porch rail, but these two were flying all around the porch itself. I thought we were getting dive-bombed. 

Well, turns out they were house hunters, and now every evening we see this: 

This has been going on for the better part of the week. I've had to hose off the planks under their preferred bedroom, but otherwise they are ideal tenants -- for squatters. I'm thinking it's their house now; I may have to move. 

Finally, big ups to the highway department on this one: 

To be fair, it's on a dead-end street. On the other hand, I've seen one driver fly through it recently. And on the other other hand (may I borrow yours?), the taxes we pay around here should guarantee concierge service for our road signs. 

It's for the boids, I tell ya! 

Springshots.

Ah, spring! What joy! How well the great poet Chaucer put it: 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, 

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, 

And bathed every veyne in swich licóur 

Of which vertú engendred is the flour; 

Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth 

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne...

Yeah, dude. Righteous.

You gotta love spring, if only because winter sucks so much. Yeah, the bugs are back, and some of the birds make a lot of noise, and some of the neighbors make a lot of noise, but it's okay. Why, I saw a pileated woodpecker the other day, not twenty feet away! Almost fainted with excitement. 

The bird was camera-shy, alas, but I offer these simple pictures of spring in her splendor. 

Okay, so this doesn't look like much. But when I see long, dead grass strands under my deck, I know what it means...

Construction time for the Robins again. 

The blooms look so wonderful that I hope we don't get snow in May again this year. Kills flowers dead.

The dogwood's already losing its petals. Lazy, that's what I call it. Well, let sleeping dogwoods lie. 

The maples are finally unfurling their leaves. Baby steps, maples. 

This tree always looks great. Except the year we got a late blizzard and it had so many leaves up already that the weight tore down several limbs. But it bounced back after a decade or so. Can't kill this guy.

And finally, daffodils. Maybe my favorite flower.
You forget the bulb is there and suddenly: Bing! I'm back!

The sunlight colors always look like hope. 

Turkey lights to keep them warm.

Well, the Halloween stuff has gone, and the Thanksgiving lights are coming out. 

But Fred, you say, didn't you complain once that there are no Thanksgiving lights?

Yes, yes I did, way back in 2014. Since then things have changed a bit. I see more inflatable decorations dedicated to America's first holiday now -- like our old friend Quisling the Cannibal Turkey, back again this year.

A friend of mine on the wealthy side of the mighty Hudson put out two inflatable decorations -- a non-cannibal turkey (Pilgrim hat but no silverware) and a cornucopia. Very nice. She said that, including her two inflatable decorations, that made a total of two on the block. Her neighbors do not seem to be showing the proper Thanksgiving spirit. I recommended she keep putting out more and more things until they felt compelled to either join in or call the cops. Why, she could go in for the 7.5-foot inflatable Pilgrims. This really brings Thanksgiving close to a person. 

One of the things I kvetched about nine years ago was the difficulty of Thanksgiving's seasonal colors, or rather color: "Thanksgiving is restricted to the colors of late fall, and by the end of November there are virtually no colors left. The leaves have fallen, been raked up, mulched, gone. Bare trees remain, and pinecones. Thanksgiving is brown. Who does brown lights?"

Well, maybe these people! Or close enough.

I noticed that early in the morning while walking Izzy. This family puts out quite a decorative spread for Halloween and Christmas, but with Halloween gone they'd changed out their front door lights for what look like dark orange lights. Perfect! I hope they'll follow through with some more Thanksgiving-themed stuff. 

As for me, I really never put up much outside. A door hanging and a few little scarecrows in the window. I'm too tired from Halloween and already preemptively tired from Christmas. It all takes a toll on a guy after a while. 

Org chart.

Okay, everyone settle down. You'll recall that we talked about this back in July. The new organizational chart is being released today, and I think you'll agree that this prevents a lot of the confusion we've had in years past. 

As you can see, we've broken the staff into three major groups -- avians, humans, and inanimate objects. That was our initial task. It was suggested that we instead group music-makers together, but there was too much gray area about which avians sing and which don't. Also, whether dancing and leaping constituted music. So, this was the basic breakdown decided upon. 

Now, right off the bat you can tell there's going to be some major changes. The avians are no longer grouped around the golden rings; the partridge and the pear tree have been separated. We think this will help clarify the purpose for each member, and make management more focused on their needs. 

Will this change the numbers of each? Yes, to be frank, some will be changed. Most interior groups will not be affected; in fact, the human groups will remain as is. And for the avians, there will be a net gain of four new hires, so I think you ought to be happy with that. Here is the new overall arrangement:

    12 Drummers (drumming)

    11 Pipers (piping)

    10 Lords (a-leaping)

    9 Ladies (dancing)

    8 Maids (a-milking)

    7 Swans (a-swimming)

    6 Geese (a-laying)

    5 Calling Birds (a-calling)

    4 French Hens (a-Frenching)

    3 Turtle Doves (a-doving)

    2 Partridges (doing whatever they do)

    1 Golden Ring (just lying there)

    Pear Tree

So, you -- oh, okay, I see some hands and wings up out there. Yes, Partridge? Right... right... No, we appreciate that you've always worked alone, but maybe you ought to consider the advantages of sharing the limelight. Not that we don't love your solo act! But why should everything fall on you all the time? Just think about it for a while. This is to benefit you!

Yes, Maids? Oh, you did? Well, I'm not sure where you got that idea, but if we did increase the maid workforce that would just require an increase in the cow workforce, you see? I know you work very hard, but the contract calls for one cow per maid, even if the cows don't particularly get a mention. These are implied cows, yes. 

No, Ladies, I'm sorry, this is not the time or place to take up your grievances with the Lords. Please call my office after the holidays and we'll try to work out a meeting. Meanwhile, Lords, please stop taking things from the Ladies' dressing room. If you need makeup or undergarments to perform your duties, you should be discussing it with your manager. 

Okay! So let's... What's that? Gold Rings? Well, I'm sorry, Rings, but as inanimate objects, you really have no standing to complain. The layoffs will be done by seniority. Last in, first out. Yes, yes, that does mean Ollie will be the ring staying on. I didn't want to discuss it this way, but those are your union rules. Remember, though, you're at all-time high value and are a great hedge against inflation -- all the radio ads say so. You'll get snapped up quick.

Uh -- what was that, Hens? Oh, I'm glad you asked. Yes, this will apply in languages throughout our territory. In Canada, that means you'll be the Four French Hens as well as Quatre Poules Françaises. Naturally in France you'll just be Quatre Poules. In China it will be right to left and vertical, while in Israel it's backward. Those aren't big markets for us, though.

Thanks everybody! I think we have everything squared away. Let's go make this the best 12 Days ever! 

Oh, and Pear Tree? May I see you in my office for a moment...? 

Bunch o' critters.

We often hear that animals have curious names when they get together. One raven is okay, but you get a bunch in the same place and you have a conspiracy. Owls, on the other hand, prefer to be a parliament. And a bunch of otters is a family. Which is nice. 

A "mischief" of rats

Some animals seem to have chosen the cool names themselves, like a pride of lions or a sounder of pigs. Others got stuck with the leftover names, like a sloth of bears or a smack of jellyfish. Some seem to have taken more deserving names from others -- while the pandemonium of parrots comes across as pretty appropriate, did anyone ask the pandas what they thought?

Along these lines, I have twenty animals that I thought could use new and better collective nouns. Let's see what you think. 

A dress parade of chinstrap penguins

A beer run of  Clydesdales

A coatrack of ibexes

A cuteness of red pandas

A hellspawn of mosquitoes

A dropbox of koalas

A cuddle of anacondas

A film noir of pandas

A classroom of hamsters 

A catastrophe of turkey vultures

A chorus line of blue-footed boobies

A bloodbath of honey badgers

A bluh-blah-bluh of vampire bats

A laugh track of hyenas

A Targetful of ladybugs 

An outbreak of spotted salamanders 

A fart of blowfish

A Jonathan of jackrabbits

A shelling of snails

A lotl axolotls

I was going to come up with one for egrets, but I have no egrets.

🐠🐙🐘🐗🐖🐌🐍🐎🐏🐅🐂🐃🐄🐈🐉🐊🐋🐟🐞🐝🐜🐥🐭🐮🐨🐩🐫🐪🐭

That's all I have today. As always, your further suggestions are welcome in the comments.

Counting crows.

So, the crows are back in town. 

I haven't missed them much. Their CAW always sounds like an accusation from an angry ex. They're not ugly birds, and black goes with everything, plus I admire their interest in getting to the high ground however tall a structure may be. 

Of course, they do like to go after the garbage, when people are too foolish to get cans with lids. 

"MMmmm!"

I mean, we're not foiling raccoons or bears here. A lid is all it takes to stop the crows. 

Anyway, I didn't realize that they were gone until they came back. That is to say, last summer was so wet that the crows never seemed to show up, not even in the fall when they are most active in these parts. I understand from certain crowologists that heavy rains discourage crows, and we sure had a lot of that in 2021. The grass had to be cut weekly. Now? My lawn hasn't been cut all month and even the weeds look exhausted. This may be ideal crow summer weather. 

One morning this week the boys and I went outside and on the front lawn it looked like we had some crow-on-crow violence. Or perhaps the local fox caught one and devoured it on the spot. 

Just black feathers hither and yon. As for the bird, well, nevermore.

Of course, my dogs were fascinated by the remains. They kept sniffing around, me trying to discourage it. Avian cholera, mad cow disease, bird mites, all kinds of fun things can be carried by those doity boids. I'd prefer to admire them from afar. 

If I'm trying to sleep, actually, I'd rather not admire them at all. I do not have any ex-wives around, but if I did, I imagine they would sound just like that. 

Construction debris.

Once again, the robins have arrived, and are starting construction on a new house. 

I don't mind that at all -- it's more of a problem for them, really, because after the eggs are laid, every time we go in the yard with the dogs, mom flies off in a panic and then peeps angrily from a tree until we go away. Look, lady, I'm sorry, but I pay the mortgage here, not you!

They also leave a lot of construction debris around. 

I saw a male robin working on a nest in a neighbor's yard. The red-breasted henpecked hubby had a mouth full of dead grass, and was no doubt waiting to be told where to put it. "Try it on that branch... no, wait, put it in the maple tree... no, no, too much light. Move it over to the gable. Oh, no, forget that. How about the dogwood? Higher, higher… Why are you looking at me like that, Ralph?"

You'd think that robins mate for life, with all that going on. The male robin does seem to understand one of the crucial rules of marriage:

But in fact, robins usually don't mate for life, although they might get together again if they find themselves hanging out in the same place the next year. In any event, for the male, it's a case like any second marriage -- the triumph of hope over experience. 

I'll keep tabs on the robins as the spring moves on. Frankly, I'd like to hear Mrs. Robin yelling at her husband the way she yells at me. But I think they don't like to air their dirty laundry outside the nest.  

CSI: Porch.

I was inside the house with the dogs, and yet none of us heard what almost certainly was a battle to the death raging outside on the front porch. 

Not sure if the fight knocked over the shovel, 
which I have left out to prevent any 
further snow. You're welcome.

Our preliminary examination shows two different kinds of bird feathers -- larger, well formed wing feathers and smaller, fluffier down ones. Also, we immediately notice that blood was spilled here. 

By far the smaller feathers dominate, in the area around as well as upon the porch. 

Because, in truth, I know nothing of ornithology, I have had to guess that either a large bird got hold of a smaller one that fought like hell, or a large bird got hold of a mammal that may have even successfully fought to escape, leaving different types of bloody feathers from the same bird behind. Anyone who actually did pay attention to this in Cub Scouts is invited to tell me what you think in comments.

Of course, Baby Dog Izzy zeroed in on the blood like a kamikaze. Once I wrestled him away, I swept off the feathers and washed off the blood with soapy water. Dogs, like other carnivores, know that blood = good eats!

And alas, I am reminded of Tennyson's immortal words: 

Who trusted God was love indeed

And love Creation's final law

Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw

With ravine, shriek'd against his creed

Personally, I think there's no problem believing in a loving God and yet knowing nature is cruel. It's only wibbly wobbly types who walk up to grizzly bears to say hi that worship Nature as an all-benevolent goddess, dispensing kindness to all. They may get corrected suddenly and effectively.

Peacocks on a mission from God.

Friday was National Peacock Day, as our friend and Certified Dad Joke Expert PLWoodstock mentioned in the comments yesterday. Actually, I have been able to find no reference to the weird holiday on all my usual Weird Holiday calendars, but let's just roll with it. After all, it was a day for Peacocks of the basketball variety, as a small private college, St. Peter's University in Jersey City, slipped past powerhouse Purdue in the men's NCAA basketball tournament to move into the Elite Eight. The 15th-seed Peacocks became the lowest seed to ever get that far. It was one of the most thrilling, nail-biting games of any kind I have ever seen. 

My disinterest in basketball is well known; just a sport that, like hockey, never grabbed me. That's changed in the last week, at least temporarily, since one of my oldest and dearest friends is an alumnus of St. Peter's. In fact, he was on the last football team the school ever fielded, since (dare I say) their success rate on the gridiron was exceptionally compromised. However, he is thrilled to follow his old school's playoffs, and we old pals, being scattered about the tri-state area now, have been watching each game together virtually while keeping a running chat going via texts. It's been a lot of fun. 

I asked my friend if he knew why the team's mascot is the peacock. He didn't know, although he'd heard that the grounds used to have a lot of peacocks hanging about. That seems odd, since the peacock is not native to the Americas. Moreover, St. Peter's avian symbol is the rooster or cock, after Christ's warning that Peter would deny Him three times before cock crow. 

I suggested that the name came from Pete cock, which seems unlikely but is kind of funny. (Keep it clean, boys.) 

Actually, it seems that the peacock, like the pelican and many other animals, has a history of Christian symbolism. The site Jesus Walk lists some examples of peacock symbolism in Christian art, for example, but nothing specifically associated with St. Peter. 

When I was a kid, the local zoo had a couple of African peacocks wandering around. They were fun to watch, but the males seldom put on the classic display. It's usually done to scare predators, and of course to attract mates. 

"Helllloooo, ladies!"

There's quite a spectacle on the court, though, as the young men of St. Peter's are playing an energetic brand of basketball that thrills my basketball-loving pals, most of whom can barely stand the modern NBA's current brand of three-point showboating and bricked foul shots. 

I root for the Peacocks unreservedly in their battle against the Tar Heels tonight. Fight fiercely, Peacocks!

I have also noted that, since it is Lent, St. Peter's is on a mission from God. I think we have to understand that that's the case. Villanova is still in the mix, but it's time for a more humble Catholic college to step forward. St. Peter's has gotten the call.

Total commitment.

Unlike the other guys, Phil never neglected leg day.

 

A famous trio.

Trois Poules Françaises, Boulevard des Oiseaux, Paris, 1902

 

Get them swans!

The swans are back at the lake! Can swan-upping season be far behind? 

Swan-upping is not a sport -- perhaps it's better described as an activity or a job -- that one finds here in the States, but it has been going on for centuries on the Thames. I shall let Dr. Wiki explain:

Swan upping is an annual ceremony in England in which mute swans on the River Thames are rounded up, caught, ringed, and then released.

     By prerogative right, the British Crown enjoys ownership of all unmarked mute swans in open water. Rights over swans may, however, be granted to a subject by the Crown (accordingly they may also be claimed by prescription). The ownership of swans in a given body of water was commonly granted to landowners up to the 16th century. The only bodies still to exercise such rights are two livery companies of the City of London. Thus the ownership of swans in the Thames is shared equally among the Crown, the Vintners' Company and the Dyers' Company.

By "ringed," they mean an identifying ring is placed on each swan's leg. In the old days a mark would be carved on each swan's beak, some of them annoying complex -- annoying to the swanherds and, presumably, the swans. The Queen made headlines in July 2009 when she attended the ceremony, the first English monarch to do so in hundreds of years. Of course, it was cancelled last year due to Chinese Death Virus. 

Now, you may be wondering, what do they want with all those swans? Lunch? But no -- while in medieval times one might find a roast swan at a feast, today it's mainly done to check the health of the birds. Like all cool things in England, it has gone squishy. And yet it's still no easy task. Swans are large, larger up close that people might think, and usually ill-tempered and not inclined to be upped. 

The term "upping" seems curious; here is what the Royal Family itself has to say: 

A flotilla of traditional Thames rowing skiffs, manned by Swan Uppers in scarlet rowing shirts and headed by The Queen’s Swan Marker, wearing a hat with a white swan’s feather, row their way steadily up the Thames. ‘All up!’ they cry as a family of swans and cygnets is spotted, and the Swan Uppers carefully position their boats around the swans, lift them from the water and check their health.  The Swan Marker’s iconic five-day journey upriver has been an annual ceremony for hundreds of years, and today it has two clear goals; conservation and education.

Meh -- sounds like a waste of time to me, if you're not going to bother to eat some of them.

If upping you will go, you'll need a good swan hook. These traditionally looked like shepherd's crooks, because you want to get a good grab on the swan but not actually be that close to the damn thing when you do it. You can buy a modern swan hook for a mere $170 at Rescue Technology, and hook all the swans you can reach.

I first got wind of swan-upping via the inimitable Will Cuppy, whose article on the topic -- "Swan Upping, Indeed!" -- had run in The New Yorker in 1935, and was included in his book How to Attract the Wombat. Here's the start of his essay:

I was a fool to give Swan-upping a second thought. I won't say I should have ignored it. You can't ignore a thing that is called Swan-upping. The moment I heard it, I should simply have said, "Swan-upping, eh?" or "Fancy that!" and gone about my business, instead of spending an afternoon in the Public Library reading about Swans.

     Swan-upping sounds like a custom that should have been quietly dropped around the time of, say, Ethelred the Unready. But it has not been dropped -- that's the whole point. Indeed, it flourishes, quite as it did on July 16th, 1308, when Edward II issued a commission of oyer and terminer about some Swans belonging to John de Fitzgerald, who kept his birds on the Waveny, at Mendham, Suffolk.

Maybe I too was a fool to give swan-upping any notice, but he's right; once you've seen it, it makes you think. Sorry about that.

On the passing scene.

I said to myself, "Self!" I said, "That's an old Emeril Lagasse gag." "It predates him," Self replied. "In any event," I said, "I hate to do a Random Thoughts type column, but I have all these little bits that don't cohere into a solid blog post." "Hey, Thomas Sowell did them frequently for years before his retirement," Self said. "If it's good enough for him, it's good enough for you." I agreed.

Item 1: Via Instapundit -- have we reached peak 2020?

One can hope, but we still have a presidential election to decide, and the mobs are still running the streets in some cities (except by the mayor of Chicago's house, because shut up, peons).

Obviously we need Batman now more than ever.

Item 2: I wish we could box up some water and send it to California, because this has been an unusually wet summer here. Foggy mornings and rain. Usually by mid-August the grass stops growing for a while because it gets scorched, but that never happened this year.

This morning's dampness featured the visit of a stink bug on the kitchen window. The brown marmorated stink bug is yet another damn invader from Asia, like the Chinese Death Virus, first spotted in the United States in Allentown, Pennsylvania in 1996. Hmm... Isn't that around where our friend Stiiv lives? I'm sure it's a coincidence.

I wrote our little stink bug friend a haiku.

Stink bug under glass
Kindly leave my country now
Take the 'rona too

Item 3: While we have no wildfires here, we did get one wild, fiery sunrise this week.

That looks like Wrath-of-God stuff.

Item 4: The Indianapolis 500 runs today, weather permitting, before a 25% capacity crowd. Certain persons in the house here are very excited. I'm not a big racing fan, but I'll watch; I watched it a couple of years ago and enjoyed it. I hope they don't do any politically correct bows to the current crisis in the run-up to the race. A sport where people burn fossil fuels while speeding around in circles is never going to get the approval of the PC crowd, no matter whose rings they kiss.

Item 5: Autumn is knocking at the doors, and I'm not just saying that because of the Halloween candy in the supermarket. Saw a big Canadian goose V in the sky this morning. It was not heading south, though; actually, it was heading east. Maybe these were Canadian geese with poor sense of direction.

Also, the chestnuts are on the way:

But the dahlias haven't given up yet.

Item 6: My favorite online gags of recent note:

And with that, I hope you have a lovely Sunday, and keep your sense of humor whatever happens next. Good luck, Karen Doe; I hope Higgins comes home soon.

2020, on the hoof.

Was that a toy in the backyard? I can usually account for all of the dogs' playthings, because I'm the one who throws them and most of the time they remain there, being ignored by the dogs, who want to sniff and gnaw weeds instead. So yesterday morning when I spotted a long, white object off in the distance, I couldn't place it. I had Nipper with me, so while he was distracted by a weed or two, I went to check it out.

It was not a toy. It was the foreleg of a fawn, ripped off, the bloody thigh bone protruding from the knee. I gasped like a little girl.

And I'm really glad Nipper didn't key on it first.

I'm not particularly squeamish, especially about an animal I would and have eaten. Like a lot of people who are being honest, I'm mostly in favor of protections for animals in the genus Cutiepie. Like the little ducklings.

I love ducks -- on my plate -- but I have to admit ducklings are adorbs. My wife and I were sitting on the porch a few weeks back when a small army of ducklings, five in all, waddled and bonked their way toward us from the pond across the street, heads swinging right and left. Seemed like they'd gotten separated from their mother. I imagined us raising them like a family of ducks in a sixties Disney movie, but I knew it was best to get them back to their mother if possible. So I went toward them, and they literally turned tail and ran, or rather waddled and zigzagged back to the pond area.

I never had the heart to tell my wife that a couple of nights later, out with Nipper, I heard ferocious screeching and yowling across the street. I've heard lots of intramural bird fights over there, but this was different. This was the damnable circle of life in action. I figure we'll not see those ducklings again.

I was surprised though about this fawn, though. We get a good amount of foxes around here, and a few raccoons, but this was coyote or bear work. I hadn't seen any of them around, but a couple of the neighbors' trash cans had gotten the business last week, knocked over and ripped apart. I can only suppose that my can was left alone because of the large quantity of dog poop in it.

I had to get the fawn leg away from the dog, so I picked it up by the little hoof -- barely bigger than a quarter in diameter -- and chucked it in a trash bag that was waiting for the garbage truck. If it had been the leg of a full-size deer, it would have been harder to get rid of, but it would have made me less sad. Fawns and ducklings are cute, and dumb, and I just hate to see one get murdered so young. Life is hard on the little ones.

Well, be glad I didn't have my phone with me, or I might have taken a photo of the remains for a Very Special Movie Event of Bacon's Beat, reviving my mouse detective Bacon, investigator of all the roadkill I've seen around here.

That evening, by the way, I went into the back again with Nipper, and sure enough a dark coyote was making his escape through the tall grass as we entered. Come back for the foreleg, I guess. I'll be watching for him.

Oh, well. Sorry, little fawn. Just another damn creepy thing to happen in our annus horribilis, 2020. At least the coyote got to eat something he ought to eat, rather than leftover pizza crusts and tuna casserole.

Sights of summer.

Hello, friends, and welcome to another lousy Tuesday entry following a busy Monday. In keeping with such days, I would like to share some pictures of the season, that season being summer, and this place being around my neighborhood, for the most part:

Early morning, sun coming up on a neighbor's deck. The dew is heavy on the ground, and every other surface, but the moment the sun comes up it begins steaming off. Tears of Eos.

The last robin in the nest. They had at least three and possibly four baby birds in there a couple of weeks ago, but my do they grow up fast. It doesn't look like Mom has to chuck them out either; they seemed to get too big, and one by one they get forced out. Roll over! Roll over! Or the last one ate the others. 😱Probably not, right? Let's check with Mr. Britannica.

First we learn that the name for the American robin is Turdus migratorius. And then we laugh like Beavis and/or Butthead. Heh heh ... heh heh ... you said "turd." Further down in the article there is this:

Four to six bluish green eggs are incubated by the female for 12–14 days. The female incubates the eggs and the male obtains food for the young, who fly in 14–16 days. There may be two or three broods per season. The name robin is also applied to other New World thrushes of the genus Turdus.

Heh heh ... heh heh.

So yes, the robin (or Joe Turdus as he is now known here) does flee the nest quickly. Everyone else goes too. There's no empty nest syndrome with robins. After the kids are grown they all leave home. It's like Mom and Dad saw the last kid off to school, abandoned the house, and took off for their golden years in a Winnebago.

This one isn't mine:

I saw this online and immediately sent it to a friend. Due to circumstances beyond his control, he was forced to become the president of his homeowners' association. And he's been the one to get the flak for following through on the order to close the development's swimming pool. So of course I wanted to know if this "Due to The Carnivorous" picture was from his pool. He denies it, but I don't know. He does enjoy the Jurassic Park movies.

We'll end with this little love note from the skies:

Awww.