2000-06-17
Dear Diary:

I'm thinking that I am surrounded by mass quantities of hygenically challenged birds.

The birdbath no one will use. I mean, how else can I explain the fact that our birds will not use the birdbath?

Ingrates.

The birdbath was my Christmas gift from my spousal unit, about 300 pounds worth of "I love you, dear". Some men give their wives jewelry, some give perfume, others give sexy lingerie. My husband gives me something in cement.

I guess I shouldn't worry unless I see a pair of gaily wrapped size ten cement overshoes with my name on them, huh?



Doesn't everyone's husband show affection with cement? Mostly it's gargoyles, because he knows how I love kitschy things. But this year he outdid himself and bought this beautiful birdbath.

A birdbath which the birds will not use.

Ingrates.

I mean, think about it. Say you're a finch, bluejay, grosbeak, nuthatch .. whatever ... and you've gone through a long Canadian winter, thanks to a kindhearted woman (who will remain nameless) who trudges out daily and fills bird feeders for you.

The home of this kindhearted woman (who will remain nameless) is only accessible in the winter by skidoo which means every 50 pound bag of birdseed she buys for you gets to the house with a fair bit of hassle. It might be cold enough out there to freeze the nose off the Pope, but this kindhearted woman (who will remain nameless) makes sure you get fed.

Summer comes, and here's this same kindhearted woman (who will remain nameless) trudging out daily to still load her feeders with treats for you AND to clean out a birdbath for you. She fills it with fresh water which is warmed by the dappled sunlight that filters through the yellow birch that grows by the birdbath.

Wouldn't YOU do a little splashing about in said birdbath, perhaps a little random frolicking for her amusement? I know YOU would. Not MY birds. Hmppppphhhhhh.

Ingrates.

In other nature related news, I FINALLY proved to Paul that frogs are not all as sweet at Kermit. I have been telling him for years they are thuggish natural born killers, but he pishawed and pooh poohed my claims of frog mayhem. Now he has seen the light.

Thuggish, natural born killer or sweet green thing.  You decide. Last night Zubby caught a frog and while I got it away from him before he killed it, he had hurt it some. Paul released it into the pond and another, much larger frog swam over, watching the struggles of the injured frog. He observed for a few minutes, made sure the frog was indeed hurt, and then swam over to him.

The big frog grabbed the smaller, injured frog by his shoulders and shoved him in his mouth, head first. Yep, he did.

In a move right out of a "B" horror movie, the killer frog had to keep patting one of the little frog's back flipper feet back into his mouth with one of his hands--the victim thrashed about until he smothered in his attacker's stomach.

Ewwwwwww.

So now Paul knows.

It's a frog eat frog world.

--Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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