By The Campfire

July 9, 2008

Every year, birds build a nest under our deck. The nest is always in the exact same place, under the left corner. The three sky blue, speckled eggs are always visible through the exact same cracks in the wooden floor. The hatching is one of Rudy’s favorite yearly events.

He spends hours every day checking on his birds once they shuck the shell and start yapping like The View. He rushes out the back door and slides to a stop over the crack and acts like Donald Trump. He peers into the little slit and studies the newly hatched birds like a scientist with a microscope. He shoves his nose hard into the wood, hoovering the scent of the birds with long, percolating sniffs that seem to rattle his lungs with joy.

He believes he is the baby bird’s guardian, their protector. I joked one day that he is the godfather. Jake, my oldest son, said Rudy is the Birdfather.

The momma bird pays scant attention to the dog snout causing a Purina breeze above her, sucking the feathers up against the decking atop her brood. It is as if the previous nesters have spread the word that Rudy is the benevolent watch dog, eyeing any predators who might disturb the babies.

Last week, a predator arrived in the back yard. There is a new cat in town. This interloper has been scouting the nest, looking for an angle, planning a heist. I saw the cat sitting under the deck two days ago, face contorted in thought, looking up at the chirping buffet and smacking his lips, dreaming of a feathery snack. It will not happen.

Rudy is going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.

Rudy’s relationship with birds stretches from here to the Gulf Coast. Puddle Jacks master their domain with a vengeance. The cat may soon be sleeping with the fishes. In The Godfather, how would Michael Corleone have dealt with a threat to his territory? Think Joe Pecsi in Goodfellas. Luca Brasi will pay a visit to Mr. Feline. It will get ugly. There will be blood.

This week, Rudy began watching the cat from the window like Lee Harvey at the Book Depository. He is taking mental notes, studying trajectory and escape routes. He now stalks his way across the deck to check on his birds. He is stealth and silent and clipped in his motion. The cat has no idea. Rudy is in Delta Force mode. I saw him nuzzle under a pile of leaves yesterday to camo his white fur. Only his wagging tail and wet nose was visible. The cat is clueless.

Will the birds fly away before the cat finds a way to shimmy up the deck and one-arm a birdie meal? Will Rudy light up the cat like Terry Tate, office linebacker? The drama is like watching a promo for a WWF or Ultimate Fighting Championship match. The characters are drawn, the prize is established, the faces are taut, tension builds.

Rudy is hiding behind a tree as I type this. The cat is on the fence. Rudy has bad thoughts on his mind. I can read his face like the sports section. The cat has no idea that a determined Jack awaits. It is suppose to be 100 degrees today. My skin crawls. The neighbors perch against their windows, faces pressed against the glass. An ambulance siren wails in the distance. It is a good day to die.

Life is better than TV.

To send comments or story ideas to Terry, click here

To return to the main blog page, click here

Opinions expressed here and in any corresponding comments are the personal opinions of the original authors, not necessarily of Big River and may not have been reviewed in advance by Big River.