The Writer’s View
I look out my window on about ten acres of forest, at the border of which are any number of bird feeders. I had a special container put in to attract the goldfinches and to detract all the less colorful brown birds who just wanted to visit blandness upon my day. The poor goldfinches, however, are made to eat their seed upside down, as apparently, they’re the only birds which can, and it’s the only way to deter the other nasty “predators.” Factor in the squirrels, the dazzling scarlet red finches, and the occasional lost bird from some tropical paradise (of all the places to get lost from!), and it all sounds rather idyllic. Until nightfall comes, and the hoot owl starts in, the crickets, the neighbor’s blood hounds (those dogs do not bark, they have a haunting, crying howl they do that sounds as if someone’s torturing them.)
Come dawn, there are the not one, not two, but three neighbor’s cocks crowing, more dogs barking (she has twelve of them) and the cats come out to menace my birds. Being quite the bird enthusiast, the neighbors and I are seldom more than seconds away from a blood feud that would give the Hatfield and McCoy clans pause. I’ve held myself in check thanks to my meditative practice, some natural tranquilizers I hear are superior to any you can buy from the pharmacist, and the image of what would happen to me if I pulled out my .22 and shot one of those cats. I have a .22; they have several shot guns, scoped rifles, camou gear, oh, and a canon. All in all, I’ve decided I love cats. And that it’s really just nature taking its course.
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