Ruthie Robin’s Ramblings

Greetings, fellow feathered friends! Welcome to RRR’s Spring Edition. Those of us who migrated south, perhaps to Mexico or beyond, are relieved to be back home in our familiar breeding grounds. My purpose in writing today is to remind my loyal readers that, while we must all be careful with our ritual gathering of twigs, twine and flavoured floss, I believe that particularly we who live in urban settings need to exercise an extreme degree of caution as we choose where to construct our nests. To establish a safe and comfortable spot for our nursery, we must take pains to prevent excessive negative contact with humans. Remember, they spend a lot of time outdoors when the weather gets warm.

Let me illustrate my message. I can attest from personal experience that it is beyond disturbing to be on egg-warming duty, unable to escape, when this happens: You smell something suspicious. You look down at the stainless steel cooking monstrosity and gag as your worst fears are confirmed. To them it’s plump, plucked poultry for supper. But all you can think of is the F-word — Family. Granted, it’s a distant country cousin, born in a barn, nameless and illiterate. But still, imagine the horror and indignity to be beheaded, fully plucked, then thrown onto a grill to sizzle over an open fire. Like you and me, this sorry creature grew up with wings and feathers – it probably sported a perky little beak at one time – and it deserves respect. No less disturbing when he or she has been butchered into bite-size pieces and coated in Honey Garlic Shake ’N Bake.

Usually, people keep their barbecues in the back yard. This makes front yards far more appealing to my family. Last year, our hormones raging with fantasies of the birds and the bees, Ralphie and I hastily chose a house in a new subdivision, not far from a stand of trees and a babbling brook. The top half of the front door was clear glass with criss-cross metal strips. Hanging over it was a large all-season wreath, made of wicker and woven with a variety of greenery, colourful flowers and ribbons. We built our nest on the lower arc of the wreath, and soon I laid three lovely blue eggs. It was one of those houses with a small landing in front of the door with room for only one wrought-iron chair for decoration. The garage protruded out from the house so its brick wall provided protection from the elements, although the wreath would rock gently like a cradle if the breeze was strong enough. Another attraction was that nobody ever seemed to use the front door. They went in and out through the garage.

You may have guessed by now that our idyllic situation did not last. The parents and two young children were well-meaning but exuberant about our presence. They climbed on the chair to see into our nest. They tapped on the window from the inside to wake us up, and snapped photos with blinding flashes, until Ralphie and I were forced to get aggressive. We’d squawk and flap our wings to make them and their friends back off when they got too friendly with our growing chicks.

The best part of that nesting season was that we broke the Early Empty Nest record for Middlesex County. The average length of stay for robin chicks after hatching is 13 days. Ours were out after 9 and a half! We owe a huge thank-you to our human hosts for motivating our babies to grow up fast.

Will we return this year? Tough decision. Maybe if they offer some tasty wild bird seed near the front door (preferably the Squirrel Proof kind). Or, better yet, maybe we should plan a scouting expedition to that peaceful stand of evergreens beside the babbling brook.

See you in the Summer! Happy nesting… Ruthie