Birdwatching

Recently the barn swallows celebrated another Fledge Day.  As I observe these days, suddenly as if out of nowhere, eight or ten adult barn swallows converge on the yard, swooping and hollering.  The young'uns, who have practiced perching and just a bit of gliding, make it outside to watch.  But as the grown-ups demonstrate what fun flying is (and it must be, mustn't it?), the young'uns are gradually overcome with desire to leap into the air and let their wings do their thing.

Then all eight or ten adults fly into formation around the young'uns, giving them the freedom to get the hang of it without worrying about hawks or flying into trees or the side of the barn.

It's a magnificent ritual for a sunny summer day.  And by nightfall, all the swallows will have left the barn.  I do not know where they live once they have fledged.  But they come back every evening to swoop and eat bugs.  And maybe, just maybe, the little ones tell the others "that's where I grew up!"

On another front, I've been observing the local hummingbirds through my living room window.  For about a month there seemed to be just one, but about a week ago I realized three were vying for position.  None has a ruby throat -- perhaps they're all young.  The most interesting behavior I've seen is that one of them will perch in the vine growing up the shepherd's hook.  See it there towards the top?

Then when another comes to drink at the feeder, the hidden one bursts out and chases it.  I've read that hummers are very territorial, so this may well be aggressive behavior, but it appears quite playful.

Of course they fly so fast, I was not able to catch their race in any of my photos.  But they are so involved in this competition that I can sit in a lawn chair not ten feet away and watch the action.  At times all three of them race back and forth, zooming over the roof or around the corner.  Then number one returns to its hiding place, and eventually the game begins again.

Who needs TV?!

The Girl Without a Pearl Earring

I like to wear pearl earrings.  In my 20s I bought my first pair.  They were small, and had a beautiful pinkish blush to them.  Eventually I lost one of the pearls and went without for a while.

Then in my 30s, when I had a "career," I bought another pair of pearls.  They were a bit larger, brought a soft glow which I find about the most jewel-y jewelry I can wear day to day.

That pair met an untimely end last winter.  We were at the start of one of the many blizzards to accost our area.  I had a 4:00 hair appointment, and planned to zip straight home after.  As Alaina dried my hair I felt my earring loosen, and quickly I tightened it back to my earlobe.  I advised her to cancel her remaining appointments and get home and off I went.

Not two blocks away I needed to stop to clear the ice off my windshield wipers.  I popped out of the car, cracked the ice, then continued my trip home.  At the gas station I began pumping gas, then realized my earring was gone.  But where did it fall off?  The salon?  The side of the road?  The gas station?

Long story short, I never found it.  But I was determined to have a pair, so I trekked to a mall in South Bend.  I selected the jewelry store formerly owned by people from my former suburb (if you are from the Chicago area, you might remember "jewelry created for now, and forever"!).  I presented the remaining stud and requested a match.  They sent it off into the great unknown.

Weeks passed.  I called for an update.  No news.  Then I was notified that the matching earring was in.  Upon returning to the store, the manager formally opened a jewelry box with the old and the new earring -- glaringly unmatched!  I asked her "does anyone look at these when they come in, because I know nothing about it and I can see that that is NOT a pair."  Honestly!

More weeks passed.  Finally they did, indeed, match the earring.  I paid a small fortune for the privilege of once again having two glowing orbs on my lobes.

By now you are wondering why I am posting this on my Busy Solitude Farm blog, right?  Here is the rest of the story.

Remember Spot?  He likes to jump on my back when I am in the barn.  This evening I was closing their outside door and up he popped.  Egglebert was at my ankles, harassing me, so I was a bit distracted.

And suddenly I felt a little peck at my ear.  And when I reached up, my earring was gone.  It was nowhere to be seen in my clothes or on the bedding.  I think it is inside Spot.  And so I ask you...

Any chance it will pass?

Addendum, Thursday morning.  When I checked in the barn in the cage, nothing.  No, I mean literally nothing.  Spot got out!  So I am now resigned to the fact that if fate wants me to have that earring back, it will present it to me.  I'm not fighting this any more!

Good Mama Hen

At breakfast today, Mama Hen said to her chickie "let's take a walk."  At least I think that's what happened, because when I opened the door to refresh their water and food, out they strolled.

Now I have to explain that I did not have the camera at hand when this occurred.  And I hung around just to make sure Mama Hen was confident enough to keep the other chickens away from baby.

By the time I got back to the barn a couple of hours later, I discovered Mama Hen finding a place to rest with baby.  And you can watch that part!



It's so clear to me that the baby trusts Mama 100%.  Wherever Mama goes, baby follows.  If they get separated, baby just needs to peep louder and Mama clucks reassuringly and they return to each other.

So once they settled in, they had a little conversation.

And then baby decided she wanted to rest somewhere other than under Mama's warm breast. 

So she found just the right place.

Chicken Clown Car

Imagine if I got them their own VW Beetle!

On the pact we make with dogs

The heat broke today.  The air remains a bit thick, but the breeze is off the lake and holds the promise of a cooler night.

On Facebook I read that a friend's elderly dog died today.  They'd been together fifteen or sixteen years, done obedience and therapy work, comforting the ill and encouraging children to read aloud.  Their partnership was legendary.  Just recently they'd had a health scare, but were given the precious gift of a few more weeks together.

My dogs each got a walk this evening, something we have not done in a week or more.   On returning home I heard that a friend's 7 month old puppy was hit by a car and killed earlier this week.  He'd been such a joy, so full of promise.  Struck in front of their house.  She said she's spent the past two days curled in a ball, apologizing to him.

We take on such responsibility when we bring a dog into our lives.  As domestics they cannot feed themselves, or groom much on their own.  They work to fit into our world.  Truly domestic -- they serve our needs.  And the biggest need they serve is our need to have someone to love.

It's the pact we enter into.  Let me love you and I will feed you.  Let me love you and I will take you to the park, and for car rides.  Let me love you and I will throw the ball.  Tangible gifts.  But we can't say let me love you and I will protect you from all danger and keep you with me forever.  Because that is not possible.  We cannot make that pact with dog, nor man.

And sadly, we are reminded throughout life that this pact may never be entered.  The strongest, healthiest dogs live only fifteen or sixteen years with luck.  But disease or accidents take them much younger.  Despite the love.  The tremendous love we use to envelop them, our beloved dogs, and hold them close.

Oskar had a cancerous growth removed earlier this week.  We did not know it was malignant until after the surgery.  Now we must watch and wait to see if it returns.  He will be twelve in a few weeks.  Each evening now I find myself saying to him, let me love you one more day, and I will brush you gently.  Let me love you one more day, and I will take you for a walk.  Let me love you one more day and we will sing Suppertime.

And for now, he lets me love him.

Addendum.  Click here to see a lovely tribute to Shandy, my friend who lived 16 great years.