Spring has been a reluctant visitor here in Minnesota. In past weeks, robins have had to clear snowdrifts from their nests and treat their featherless young for frostbite.
Already toward the end of May, temperatures are finally approaching the seventies; the apple trees are blooming, and the flowering crabs and lilacs are releasing their perfume. The garden has been planted, and the grey squirrels are busy digging up the garden. It’s no wonder they’re known as t-r-o-u-b-l-e.
Spring is also showing on the critters. A fat rabbit that lingers under the bird feeder looks like it contains about twenty bunnies. A bloated grey squirrel seems glued to the bird feeder, shoveling in the sunflower seeds one by one, reluctant to give up its perch, even when I show up to whisk it away. It will look at me, squint, glower, and, deciding how serious a threat I pose, perhaps scamper off for a moment or two, only to return to its unshelled supply. Rose or Chip-Chip may be expecting as well. The daily food supply left in the garage has recently been cleaned up completely. In the past sunflower seeds or peanuts have been left behind. Eating for three or four or six, it seems, demands a lot more food.
More pressure on me.
Expectant mothers need their nutrition.
Since I’ve already interfered in the natural order of things, I feel obligated to continue, despite the added pressures on my grocery budget. (Even the catbirds are rapidly working their way through the fatty suet blocks in part because the cold weather has limited the availability of insects for their diets. Unfortunately, many songbirds have died this year because the cold weather has killed off the insects upon which they depend—so the next time you see a mosquito, remember that it is a good thing, at least for bluebirds and the rest.)
On the downside, if I’d discontinue feeding these local critters, they’d probably turn on me—chewing through my car tires or the nearest electrical wiring, starting a blaze, and, well, if that didn’t work perhaps starting rumors about me. Who knows where all that would end up? My name and an unflattering photo in the local newspaper? A nasty blog? A viral campaign? An insurgency? An uprising? A rebellion? Would UN peacekeepers need to intervene? Or Google?
A conspiracy of critters could be a dangerous thing.
Already toward the end of May, temperatures are finally approaching the seventies; the apple trees are blooming, and the flowering crabs and lilacs are releasing their perfume. The garden has been planted, and the grey squirrels are busy digging up the garden. It’s no wonder they’re known as t-r-o-u-b-l-e.
Spring is also showing on the critters. A fat rabbit that lingers under the bird feeder looks like it contains about twenty bunnies. A bloated grey squirrel seems glued to the bird feeder, shoveling in the sunflower seeds one by one, reluctant to give up its perch, even when I show up to whisk it away. It will look at me, squint, glower, and, deciding how serious a threat I pose, perhaps scamper off for a moment or two, only to return to its unshelled supply. Rose or Chip-Chip may be expecting as well. The daily food supply left in the garage has recently been cleaned up completely. In the past sunflower seeds or peanuts have been left behind. Eating for three or four or six, it seems, demands a lot more food.
More pressure on me.
Expectant mothers need their nutrition.
Since I’ve already interfered in the natural order of things, I feel obligated to continue, despite the added pressures on my grocery budget. (Even the catbirds are rapidly working their way through the fatty suet blocks in part because the cold weather has limited the availability of insects for their diets. Unfortunately, many songbirds have died this year because the cold weather has killed off the insects upon which they depend—so the next time you see a mosquito, remember that it is a good thing, at least for bluebirds and the rest.)
On the downside, if I’d discontinue feeding these local critters, they’d probably turn on me—chewing through my car tires or the nearest electrical wiring, starting a blaze, and, well, if that didn’t work perhaps starting rumors about me. Who knows where all that would end up? My name and an unflattering photo in the local newspaper? A nasty blog? A viral campaign? An insurgency? An uprising? A rebellion? Would UN peacekeepers need to intervene? Or Google?
A conspiracy of critters could be a dangerous thing.
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