I have been sunbathing – with a blackbird. You’re right, I don’t look the sunbathing type. And I don’t want to over-egg the pudding here, particularly as that might upset my feathered friend.
When I say “sunbathing”, I should explain I was wearing my overalls and wellies. It was a lovely day, the start of that recent warm spell, and I’d noticed the female blackbird (females are actually brownbirds, as you probably know) sunning herself beneath the flowering cherry tree, which was playing host to the year’s first bees on her newly opened flowers.
Standing just a few feet away, this blackbird was all fluffed up, her wings outstretched and her mouth open, looking a bit glaikit, as I told her. Maybe she needed the vitamin D.
In harmony with my bird
Two can play at that game, I decided, not least because I fancied a wee break from persecuting my garden. Or, rather, my garden needed a wee break from me.
So the blackbird and I stood side by side worshipping the sun. Lacking feathers to stretch, I fluffed my hair up a bit and stuck out one of my legs. It was a fine moment.
You may wonder why the bird didn’t fly off. But this lass is the one I mentioned last week, in my learned article about Gabby the crow. She’s the blackbird who’s friendlier than the others.
Spot loved me like a brother
She’s not the first blackbird that I’ve considered a bestie. When I lived in a city suburb, I’d a best pal called Spot, a male blackbird who loved me like a brother.
He’d hop, if only momentarily, onto my knee when I sat on the bench in the back garden.
Of course, he did not love me but my food. But I think he rather did like me, in the way that I’d like someone who bought me a fish supper every week. I’d hop up on their knee too.
Then came the incident…
One time, Spot went too far – for his own good. He followed me into the house, hopping along the floor and into the kitchen. Unfortunately, once there, he seemed suddenly to come to his senses, thinking “What the hell am ah daein’?”, and started to panic.
He flew into the window then leaned his beak right up against the glass, on which I could see his breath.
Staying cool myself – not – I threw a dishtowel over him then took him back out the garden and let him free.
I don’t think we were ever quite so close after that, as he looked at me and thought, “There’s yon poltroon that threw a dishtowel ower ma heid.”
The moment passed
Thankfully, my current blackbird hasn’t waddled into the hoose, though she has looked in the sitting-room window while picking berries off a nearby ivy.
Maybe, one day, she’ll venture in and sit beside me as I watch the telly, if there’s a big Scotland game on or something.
Then she’ll suddenly realise what she’s doing, and I’ll have to fetch the Dishtowel of Doom again.
Out in the garden, I suddenly realised what I was doing and, before the blackbird could throw a dishtowel over my heid, went back to work in my wellies and overalls, fortified by the vitamin D and the nice little moment of avian company.