by Pa Rock
Farmer in Late Winter
For the past several weeks I have been involved in an odd battle of resistance against a determined little bluebird. The young male and his lady friend began hanging around my back porch about a month ago, doing what appeared to be mating dances in the air while skittering about and examining the many old bird houses that I have hanging from the trees. They were, I assumed, preparing to start their family.
And the Mama Bluebird may have a nest somewhere by now. I hope that she does. Daddy, however, will not be around to see his offspring take their first leap from the nest.
Daddy Bluebird discovered his beautiful image in my car mirror on the first day of their arrival and has spent many blissful hours perched along the car window chatting himself up in the mirror. Invariably, he relieved himself many times during these bouts of vanity, and his droppings streamed down the passenger door of my old car. A routine developed whereby I kept a bottle of water and a rag outside on the back porch, and then every day before making my noon run to town, I would carefully wash off the car door. During the afternoon and the next morning, the chirpy bluebird would again work tirelessly in chattering with himself and painting the car door.
Late yesterday afternoon I stepped out the back door and found that my fine feathered blue friend had already left a couple of nice streaks down the side of the door, just as he always managed to do by that time of day. Then, as I stepped out onto the yard, I discovered the little fellow lying dead on his back on the yard - not more than ten feet from his beloved car. There were no obvious marks of foul play, so fo the time being I am not accusing the cats - although the day before I had come upon one of the Toms finishing off a squirrel.
I buried the little bluebird in a pile of pine needles, knowing that his body will be used to nourish insects or other creatures who have free roam of the farm. I regret his passing and will think of him every day as I step outside and see my old car without its daily decoration of bird poop.
In other news from The Roost, the lone hen and rooster are doing well, and the little red hen provides me with four or five eggs each week. They both come running whenever I open the back door - in anticipation of bits of bread and dry dog or cat food. In fact when I stand on the back porch throwing food, the chickens and cats mix freely as they rush to grab as much as they can.
Fiona, the mama cat here at The Roost, is pregnant again. She has one litter a year, and this will be her third. Her first litter was on May 8, 2017 (Harry Truman's birthday). That time she had five, and one disappeared. Three of the remaining four went to homes in the Kansas City area, and I kept the one who ran and hid so he would not have to go to Kansas City. That shy one eventually matured into a large black Tom.
The second litter arrived on March 31, 2018. There were just four kittens in that bunch, and one died. I gave two to a pair of young men from Pomona, Missouri, who wanted them for mousers in their barn, and I kept one - again a Tom - this time a yellow one.
So now I have three adult cats here at Rock's Roost, a black Tom, a yellow Tom, and their mother, Fiona, who is a brindle. I know that I should get her fixed, but one small litter a year seems to be manageable, so far.
Anyone who wants a kitten needs to get their orders in early. Pa Rock will deliver!
Farmer in Late Winter
For the past several weeks I have been involved in an odd battle of resistance against a determined little bluebird. The young male and his lady friend began hanging around my back porch about a month ago, doing what appeared to be mating dances in the air while skittering about and examining the many old bird houses that I have hanging from the trees. They were, I assumed, preparing to start their family.
And the Mama Bluebird may have a nest somewhere by now. I hope that she does. Daddy, however, will not be around to see his offspring take their first leap from the nest.
Daddy Bluebird discovered his beautiful image in my car mirror on the first day of their arrival and has spent many blissful hours perched along the car window chatting himself up in the mirror. Invariably, he relieved himself many times during these bouts of vanity, and his droppings streamed down the passenger door of my old car. A routine developed whereby I kept a bottle of water and a rag outside on the back porch, and then every day before making my noon run to town, I would carefully wash off the car door. During the afternoon and the next morning, the chirpy bluebird would again work tirelessly in chattering with himself and painting the car door.
Late yesterday afternoon I stepped out the back door and found that my fine feathered blue friend had already left a couple of nice streaks down the side of the door, just as he always managed to do by that time of day. Then, as I stepped out onto the yard, I discovered the little fellow lying dead on his back on the yard - not more than ten feet from his beloved car. There were no obvious marks of foul play, so fo the time being I am not accusing the cats - although the day before I had come upon one of the Toms finishing off a squirrel.
I buried the little bluebird in a pile of pine needles, knowing that his body will be used to nourish insects or other creatures who have free roam of the farm. I regret his passing and will think of him every day as I step outside and see my old car without its daily decoration of bird poop.
In other news from The Roost, the lone hen and rooster are doing well, and the little red hen provides me with four or five eggs each week. They both come running whenever I open the back door - in anticipation of bits of bread and dry dog or cat food. In fact when I stand on the back porch throwing food, the chickens and cats mix freely as they rush to grab as much as they can.
Fiona, the mama cat here at The Roost, is pregnant again. She has one litter a year, and this will be her third. Her first litter was on May 8, 2017 (Harry Truman's birthday). That time she had five, and one disappeared. Three of the remaining four went to homes in the Kansas City area, and I kept the one who ran and hid so he would not have to go to Kansas City. That shy one eventually matured into a large black Tom.
The second litter arrived on March 31, 2018. There were just four kittens in that bunch, and one died. I gave two to a pair of young men from Pomona, Missouri, who wanted them for mousers in their barn, and I kept one - again a Tom - this time a yellow one.
So now I have three adult cats here at Rock's Roost, a black Tom, a yellow Tom, and their mother, Fiona, who is a brindle. I know that I should get her fixed, but one small litter a year seems to be manageable, so far.
Anyone who wants a kitten needs to get their orders in early. Pa Rock will deliver!
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