We have a lot of birds visiting our garden. Mostly big fat pigeons (we call them coos) like the one above, and a large number of blackbirds (we call them dickories), but for the past few years we've had robins and blue tits, all of whom are much too quick to be caught on camera (by me, anyway - Mr Z has some lovely pictures of a robin somewhere) and, this year for the first time, a group of goldfinches who have come and picked our copious dandelions clean.
I quite like watching the birds, as does the mitten, who loves to sit half-in-half-out of the back door guarding her property, or under her favourite bush in the garden where she has a chance of swatting the baby birds as they conduct their flying lessons between the two fences: luckily she has not caught one so far this year. We do try and keep her in a bit more, even though I feel really mean; but she has a terrible habit of sitting by our next door neighbour's fence, looking straight up at the bird table in the garden next to that, which is owned by a very grumpy and unpleasant sort of man who we fear might harm her if she manages to catch a bird feeding at his table. He dispatched the squirrels robbing it a couple of years ago so I think our fears are probably grounded.
Anyway, Mr Z has got to be a crack shot with the water pistol and is working hard to train her out of her wily ways under the bird table. The birds seem unconcerned. They quite like the cat, to be honest. She leaves fur all over the fence posts which they love. We see them in pairs: one collecting, the other swinging on a piece of the bamboo that grows at the end of the garden, acting as a look out. I think there's some marvellous poetic justice in them lining their nests and coddling their young in the fur of their aggressor.
Good word! Go and have a read of the other posts, won't you?
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