For some of you out there that have been living in the winter tundra, the thought of Spring probably doesn’t seem possible, but I’m here to tell you, I’m starting to see signs of it.
For example, I saw, or heard a dozen or so bright green, parrots perched above me earlier today. Only in Spring and summer do you see such a thing as tropical parrots flying around here, as if it were the Amazon jungle. Flocks of varied types of parrots band together after they’ve all learned how to escape from the confines of their indoor cages – and you don’t see this type of prison break during the more cooler months. It’s as if they somehow know they have to wait until Spring to escape. And for the record, the birds I saw and heard today all seemed to be quite happy in screeching harmony.
On a more personal and perhaps even more vibrant example of Spring and coincidentally birds, is my cat, Tilde: he’s caught more birds in the past few weeks than I think he ever dreamed of catching while living in Cleveland. And for me, this cat-and-bird behavior Springtime offers is bitter sweet for me, even though I know in my heart it’s natural behavior. I’ve watched him boastfully parade expired birds through the house, as their bodies dangle awkwardly from his whiskered jaw-line. I’m secretly proud of his bird catching ways with his large, bare paws, but natural or not, the other side of me can’t help but feel sorry for all these defenseless fowl he’s so gallantly murdering.
Admittedly, because I feel sorry for them, I’ve tried to intervene with nature. Fairly recently, while Tilde pranced through the house with one of the feathered creatures locked into his death-grip, I quickly realized the poor thing was still alive. It’s little beak squawked loudly, as if it was pleading mercifully with me, while also grasping at the minuscule chance Tilde would somehow loosen the death-hold grasp on its body. I leaped into bird saving action! I tried coaxing my orange-haired bird murderer into a counter-offer with one of his most favorite desires – moist and smelly delicious, tuna fish:
Me: T, you know you love tuna. Give me the bird, and I’ll give you an extra heaping of this delicious, flaky white meat. What do you say, buddy?
Tilde: Uh..hell no. That tuna is from a can. That fish isn’t wiggling, whereas I can feel this bird’s heart beat in my mouth. It’s exhilarating! I’m not trading. Get out of my way.
Me: You know you’re not going to eat the bird. You’re just toying with the poor thing. It’s mean what you’re doing to it! Dammit!
Tilde: Say’s you. I’m out of here.
Me: Tilde! No!
Tilde: See ya.
Needless to say, my coaxing yielded no such luck for the bird. Tilde is fast and furious. He growled at me with disapproval, while his copper eyes glared at me with exasperation. I knew I’d lost the battle. Before I could take his name in vain, his orange fur brushed past me, and dashed out the sliding door. The bird was still secure in his mouth as he sprung madly across the grass, and finally leaped over the fence and into the oblivion of what I can only imagine must be his own private bird cemetery somewhere.
As I re-read over my thoughts above, my ode to Springtime does seem a bit morbid, doesn’t? Certainly for most of the birds in the neighborhood, but for one orange, cat… he is thrilled beyond belief that spring has sprung so many feathers, so I’m sharing his Springtime zeal news update with you.