It was a lazy afternoon. Nancy was out of town. I headed for the back yard, settled in my front row seat beside our goldfish pond, lit up a cigar and enjoyed a splash of Evan Williams Small Batch bourbon.
My first encounter with a backyard critter was a cottontail rabbit. He hopped down the sidewalk, took one look at me and figured I was way too old and out of shape to give chase. So, he nibbled his way into one of Nancy’s flowerbeds and disappeared. My next visitor was a chipmunk that appeared to be in a qualifying heat for the Indianapolis 500. I had just scattered some seeds in the way back, which the little ‘munk quickly discovered His cheeks were now packed to the brim as he sped across the top of my blue Skecher’s on the way to his hole beneath my neighbor’s steps. In a New York minute, he was back again, tearing down the sidewalk and heading for the newly discovered stash of goodies. That went on for a spell.
Then a catbird appeared and saw that I had my now familiar red plastic bowl of mealworms on hand. The bird perched not six feet away and let out a screeching “Myow” call, as catbirds often do. He was obviously begging, but I was not in a benevolent mood, preferring to distribute the now wiggling meal worms to my bluebirds should they stop by.
“Myow, myow,” continued the catbird.
Nope, no mealies for you.
Then the bird, realizing he was getting nowhere with his irritating cries, changed tactics and delivered a soft warbling tune. That did it. I tossed 20 mealworms his way, which were quickly devoured.
The goldfish in the pond then figured it was their turn to beg and began kissing the tip of the surface hoping to find a flake of fish food. So, I fed them. They gulped down the flakes and then spread about the pond. A small frog clung to a lily pad on the far side of the pond but as Uncle Remus would say, “Br’er Frog, he just lay low.”
Finally, the bluebirds appeared, the mom, the dad and the two young’uns. I flipped a handful of mealies their way and they pounced on their snacks like a house cat on a field mouse.
My last visitor was Mrs. Robin, who has a nest next door. She, also, has discovered that I am the Santa Claus of mealworms and hopped right up to my chair. I delivered the goods and watched in amazement as she managed to stuff 17 mealworms in her beak. It was comical in a way, because near the end, she would pick up one and lose two, but she persisted, finally getting all the worms in one mouthful, then flew to the nest to spread the wealth.
I finally snuffed out my cigar, finished the last of a very good glass of bourbon and headed inside.
It had been another lazy afternoon beside the pond.
