House for Rent

It is roomy by today’s standards, but then again, this house wasn’t built for those who inhabit it. The bluebird box was made as a craft project on vacation, and we were brainwashed into thinking that “if you build it, they will come”. They never did, so I guess we’re out of luck on the Save the Bluebird bandwagon. We crafted it to the exact standards of what bluebirds like and require to nest, and hung it the recommended height on the telephone pole in the corner of the yard. We even made sure it had the correct exposure to the wind and elements. There is a plethora of food and water for the ungrateful bluebird, as there are numerous feeders, birdbaths, and the waterfall in the pond for fresh water drinking and bathing. Our yard qualifies for the National Wildlife Foundation Certified Wildlife Habitat, but I’m too cheap to pay the twenty bucks it takes to have it recognized officially. What else could these birds ask for?!

The rustic one-bedroom sat empty for nearly four years, until now. Mom and Pop Sparrow moved in a few weeks ago. Oh, there was lots of consideration before acceptance. Those two couldn’t decide if this was truly the place to raise their family. For a week, they were flying little sorties in and out of the opening, sitting on the roof cheeping like an old married couple arguing, and then landing on the fence nearby, acting as if nobody was noticing all of this fuss. They were so secretive about moving into this “love-nest” that the only sign that they actually live there is a couple of strands of grass sticking out of the bottom.

A few weeks later, there is lots of posturing and performing before Pop will fly into the place. I’m surmising that there is a nest full of babies, as he is very careful before he enters--although, I don’t think all this hopping about and peeping is actually considered “stealth”. It’s really silly, as he makes such noise before he goes in—but now I’m thinking maybe he’s just warning the little woman of his impending entrance so she doesn’t peck his eyes out.

I’m excited that finally someone moved into the birdhouse, but I’m also full of dread too. I hate baby bird season. As my optimistic self is excited for the promise of new life and cute poof-balls of fluff, my pessimistic and realistic self is not looking ahead. There is a reason birds have so many offspring—it’s because so many don’t make it in the cruel world. Eggs fall out of the rickety nests of mourning doves. Pink featherless baby sparrows drop out of the nest, forgotten, and left to die by helpless parents. Robin babies learning to fly on their own are scooped up off the lawn by well-meaning humans, not knowing that their parents are actually nearby watching out for them from a distance. Baby bird season to me is death season. What a happy thought.

I watch the house more carefully now. I watch for signs of emerging offspring—parents bringing in food like bugs and worms, droppings on the ground under the house, and more peeping by the babies. I’ll have to vanquish the kitties to the indoors as the little house is directly above Henry’s secret hosta lair in the garden. I’m thinking he would have an interest in those babies, but for different reasons. I’ll have to be extra watchful with the babies near the pond, because although my bird-eating frog has been relocated, I’ve found that birds don’t swim so well. It is constant vigilance for about a week once they leave their safe little house, and it’s the mom in me that wants to protect them. I’m just relieved that nobody likes the multi-family dwelling on the other side of the yard.