Day Job

A faint tapping sound came from upstairs, like the sound of someone knocking on the window. When I went up to investigate, I saw a Black Vulture at the large window in the living room, tapping softly. I was pretty sure I knew what it wanted.

About a week earlier, Don, bless his heart, had hit the wall about the squirrels that were taking over our bird feeder. It's squirrel hunting season here, and Don's a hunter, so I'll let you fill in the blanks. Having eaten his share of squirrels in his youth from necessity, and not from love of the meat, Don opted to donate these to our local clean up crew, the vultures. For a while, every morning, one squirrel was disappearing from the feeder and appearing, belly up, on a tall stump out from the kitchen. The vultures were efficient at disposal.

But now there had been a two day absence of squirrel meat, and the vulture at the window seemed to be asking politely, 

"Did you forget something?"

The next day, and for some time since then, there have been two Black Vultures here regularly. 

They are a lot like pets, in that they expect to be fed. 

Unlike Turkey Vultures, Black Vultures are almost handsome, with their amour-like head gear and white stockings. 

They perch on our deck... 

preen themselves...

drink from the birdbath...

lounge on the stump where the squirrels have appeared...

stretch, and generally make themselves comfortable.

 One of them even tried to take a bite of our door mat.  

It may have been a ploy for sympathy, as in "See how hungry I am?" 

Occasionally, they get demanding, flying up and striking the window with force, but for the most part, they are friendly, and even let us join them on the deck if we stay quietly in our corner.

Of course, with all this activity, squirrels are not coming around as much. The vultures haven't seemed to figure out that their frequent presence is contrary to their interests. So, until they do, we'll enjoy the entertainment. Soon enough, they'll get hungry and find it necessary to return to their regular day jobs--policing this area's highways, county roads, farms and woodlands for opportunities to put on their bibs and get back to work.

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday
I'd Rather B Birdin'
and Saturday's Critters

Of Squirrels and Men

Why do men always think they have to fix things?  Lately, squirrels have been overrunning our bird feeder, while hungry little songbirds wait, high in the trees, hoping there will be some small morsel left for them when the gluttony is over.  In his attempt to right the situation, my husband Don, the fixer in question, has been shooting squirrels.

There, it's out.

When Don was young, he hunted squirrels, in part, to assuage his hunger, but they were hard to clean, and nowadays we have better options for meals.  As much as he hates wasting meat, all it takes to send him running for his gun is to see a fat squirrel hogging the bird feeder. I'm not condoning or condemning this behavior, only relating the facts.

Don tells me in his defense that squirrel season is open, he has his hunting license, and there are hundreds of squirrels on our property.  As he puts it, "since they have abundant crops of acorns, hickory nuts, walnuts, and other squirrel menu items, why should they have to eat the bird seed?  I only shoot the bad guys.  They're the ones that don't stop with eating the bird seed; they're not content until they eat the bird feeder, too. "

Don's slaughter of these defenseless animals has had some unintended consequences. Vultures have started camping out behind our house, fighting over the squirrels, messing up the patio, and cleaning out the shell of a recently diseased snapping turtle (let's not get into how that happened).

  

The other afternoon, while I was working downstairs, I heard a peck on the window and went up to investigate.  There, sitting in the bird feeder, was a black vulture, demanding his squirrel for lunch.

And where were all the songbirds?  Well, naturally, those poor little things were high in the trees, waiting, once again, for a place at the feeder.

The best laid schemes of mice and men often go awry.

Robert Burns






Linking with Wild Birds Wednesday
and Your Sunday Best