Thursday, April 02, 2009
Requiem for the birds
I blog with bad news, friends. It would appear that this morning, as the Fed Ex guy attempted to deliver the Mister's weighty delivery (I hesitate to use the phrase "the Mister's weighty package" in a somber moment like this..) that something went horribly awry.
From what I can surmise, our dear single mother Robin must have done her usual dive-bomb at him as he attempted to bring the package to the porch. Perhaps it startled him, he discovered the nest on the door and thought he was doing us some big favor.
When I came downstairs, I found my cat crying at the front window. Outside lay the large Fed Ex package, the door wreath on top of it, the nest upside down, and sadly, friends, all four eggs shattered on the concrete of the porch. From my calculations, they would have been hatching in only a few days.
Maybe it's my hormones, or my compassion for gestating things is on overdrive at the moment, but I sat on my front porch in my pajamas crying and crying. (Naturally, I called the Mister and tearfully told him that his Fed Ex delivery was bathed in the blood of baby birds. He thinks I ought to call Fed Ex. For what? So I can hear the guy on the other end of the phone chuckle at the loony lady calling about his delivery driver smashing a few eggs?)
I rehung the wreath in high hopes that Robin will come again and perhaps give us another chance to foster her brood (though I learned that the correct term for a nest of eggs is "clutch"). I buried the little eggs under our rose bush -- perhaps overdoing the sentimentality of the situation. Rest in peace little Shadrach, Meshach, Abendnego and Egg.
From what I can surmise, our dear single mother Robin must have done her usual dive-bomb at him as he attempted to bring the package to the porch. Perhaps it startled him, he discovered the nest on the door and thought he was doing us some big favor.
When I came downstairs, I found my cat crying at the front window. Outside lay the large Fed Ex package, the door wreath on top of it, the nest upside down, and sadly, friends, all four eggs shattered on the concrete of the porch. From my calculations, they would have been hatching in only a few days.
Maybe it's my hormones, or my compassion for gestating things is on overdrive at the moment, but I sat on my front porch in my pajamas crying and crying. (Naturally, I called the Mister and tearfully told him that his Fed Ex delivery was bathed in the blood of baby birds. He thinks I ought to call Fed Ex. For what? So I can hear the guy on the other end of the phone chuckle at the loony lady calling about his delivery driver smashing a few eggs?)
I rehung the wreath in high hopes that Robin will come again and perhaps give us another chance to foster her brood (though I learned that the correct term for a nest of eggs is "clutch"). I buried the little eggs under our rose bush -- perhaps overdoing the sentimentality of the situation. Rest in peace little Shadrach, Meshach, Abendnego and Egg.
