Murder at the Soup Kitchen

The bird feeders have been refilled, and all is once again right with the world.

Well, at least with our little corner of it, as far as the birds (and more than a couple of squirrels) are concerned.  Especially since I got the pond heater working and the pond is thawed.  The one remaining fish that's shown itself in the last couple of weeks seems greatful. 

At least, he's as grateful as a goldfish can be.  They tend to be pretty stoic, keeping their emotions close to the vest.  Or fin.

During the cold weather, the feeders had run out or clogged up, the feedbag was empty and I just didn’t get around to refilling them. It was more than past time to bring in the hummingbird feeders and the “water cooler” that stays out to provide respite for the critters in the summer time.

It was also time to retire a couple of the “decorative” feeders. People who design these must be architects – the same ones that don’t ever have to live in homes they design, where outlets are 8 inches too far away, doors swing the wrong direction and light switches are inconveniently placed.

Several of the feeders (gifts, since I’m too much of a tightwad to buy anything but the most basic feeders myself) look very nice. Unfortunately, they either collect water so the contents get wet and mold over, making it useless, or they don’t “flow” so the birds can get to the food.

That’s got to be frustrating for the birds – you can see the food, right there behind the glass, but can’t reach it. They keep trying, like a toddler trying to reach into a gumball machine to grab the treasure, but it’s not any more effective.

A new thistle seed feeder acquired over Christmas and 40 pounds of songbird food has worked to remedy the situation, though, and once again the flock is fed.

Unfortunately, there seem to be some unintended consequences and I may have fed more of God’s chirrens than anticipated.  The newspapers this morning had a fluttering of feathers blowing around them, curiously close to the feeder stand. The internet reports few instances of spontaneous molting by songbirds in January, so there is but one conclusion available.

I feel something like an errant TSA officer, screening for bottles of hand lotion and fingernail clippers while the feline terrorist slips claw and fang past the detector to reek havoc at the 8th Avenue Terminal. My intentions are good, but security measures are hampered by human error.

I suspect the same cat that has de-fished the pond has diversified her diet from seafood to fowl. I don’t like it, but it is the nature of things and I don’t sweat it too much. Goldfish are 88 cents each and remain unnamed, so no emotional bonds are formed.  The feeders are responsibly placed, without overhanging branches or greenery that makes a feline ambush easier.

The critters have to take on some personal responsibility here.

I’m more protective over the chipmunks. I’ve been known to chase a cat who’s caught a member of one of the 4 or 5 families that live in the yard down the street in my bathrobe, a spectacle for the early commuters waiting on the traffic light.

But the birds are on their own, and they need to remember that even a meal at the Soup Kitchen has a price.