Published: April 17, 2008 10:56 pm            

Stan Champer: Spring on the wing and music in the air: 4/18/08

Ah, spring .... The flowers are a-bloomin’, the trees are a-leafin’ and — Saints, preserve us! — once again those dingbat birds are a-flyin’.

Just when you thought it was safe to venture into the great outdoors, the skies produced a new assemblage of divebombers — armed and ready for the War of the Feathers.

In my back yard earlier this week, the main event pitted two male robins, each of which seemed determined to send the other into Kingdom Come as they swooped and soared — red-breasted Red Barons in mortal combat.

It’s that time of the year. The men birds are looking for wives, the women birds are looking for husbands, and they all mean to protect that tree subdivision where new homes are under construction.

It’s a little crazy out there.

I’m not a big fan of the winged darlings in the first place, even during those other seasons when territorial confrontations are more the exception than the rule.

It’s a phobia that dates back many years to origins unknown and is so deeply embedded in my psyche that I even hesitate to sit at a table if the main course is something that had wings and tail feathers ... let alone partake of it. No, sir. Not by the growth on a gobbler’s chinny chin chin.

While I don’t know how the phobia developed, I should hasten to add, in fairness to myself, that it’s allied with, and dependent upon, proximity. So long as the divebombers don’t invade my little space, I’m happy for them to have all the rest.

From a distance, as a matter of fact, I rather enjoy watching them. The strutting starlings remind me of Charlie Chaplin. The woodpeckers that shinny up my maple tree are a hoot.

Distance makes all the difference, as far as I’m concerned.

There’s another creature out there in that area of town, however, that would agree with the “distance” argument only if it meant “great distance.”

I know he’s a kindred spirit in this bird business. I heard him howl about it — and he’s equipped to howl because, well, he’s a dog. My guess is he’s a good-sized hound, considering the fullness of his baritone bark.

He’s normally not very talkative, but one evening last week, he was really giving it “what for.”

It was about 11:30 and I’d just stepped outside to survey the heavens once more before bedtime when off in the distance I heard Mr. Four Paws giving something or someone a baritone blistering.

As I stood there, it became apparent that the object of his ire was a bird, perched apparently a lot closer to him than me, that had launched into an endless concert of chirping, warbling and whistling.

The poor dog, I’m sure, yearned only to cozy up in his own dwelling and catch some Zs. He may have been asleep already when this showoff showed up with a racket that rivaled Spike Jones.

The bird was most assuredly a song bird. It had talent and knew it. Its repertoire ranged from chopsticks to bebop, from mambo to blues, from ragtime to an aria so lithe it’d make Wolfgang weep.

The problem was, it wouldn’t shut up. On and on and on it went.

And the hapless hound was at wit’s end.

I wanted to stick around to see who won — the blabbermouth or the bleary-eyed dog — but calculated that the final chapter might take a while to play out.

So I went back inside and turned off the porch light.

My daughter, just passing through the kitchen, stopped and asked, “How is it out there?”

“Entertaining,” I said. “It’s spring, you know.”

STAN CHAMPER can be reached at schamper@dailyindependent.com or (606) 326-2640.

        

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