I have mixed feelings about my feathered "friends." On the one hand, I spend over a thousand dollars a year on feeding, housing, and bathing songbirds, hummers, owls, hawks, waders, and, yes, vultures too.
I love watching birds throughout the year. Not only has my knowledge grown to the point where I can identify them by breed, but truly, I know some of them, individually. For those birds I know, and their mates and their young, I take an almost proprietary interest in their welfare. I miss those bird-friends when they move on, or die, as they inevitably do; and I compare their offspring's personalities and quirks with those of their daddies and momma's.
Yes, I love "my" birds.
I also hate the little fuckers in the morning when they congregate, in mass, and call out to me, vociferously bitching and moaning that I haven't put out enough of this or that particularly expensive feed; or that I have not, recently enough for them, changed the water in their electronically heated, waterfall feature, whirlpool bath.
I've already chronicled my rare, but notable, murderous, morning rages that culminated in me shooting ball bearings, from a slingshot, at some chirping little bastard who woke me up; so I won't go through that again. Mostly, I meet their constant and churlish demands with resigned dignity, and drag myself, regardless of the heat or cold, wind or rain, to the shed where their food is kept; and while I stand there, refilling the feeders, or changing the water, the little fuckers shit on my head!
Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all of the Saints! Why is it that nothing I do pleases these goddamned birds?
Or is it just the birds I cannot please?
Could it be that my love/hate relationship with the birds is just one more indicator that all of my intrapersonal (human) relationships on this earth are doomed by my innate inability to achieve any kind of lasting contentment?
Wait a minute; I get along fine with most guys I know. It is only women with whom I have real problems relating.
Let's examine that notion.
Well, I have been married twenty-seven times, and I did love at least thirteen of those women. But, try as I might, I never achieved any kind of permanence in my married life. In fact, when it comes to women other than my sisters, no relationship I've ever had lasted more than a few months, at the very best--only days at the very worst.
It can't be me, dammit! I always did, and do, my very best to be what women want of me, or at least what I understood them to want me to be. The fault must be the women, all goddamned women!
Women… birds… What is the connection?
Eureka! I had the answer all along.
Women must have bird-brains. Yes, that is it. You see that, don't you?
On the other hand, I've never fucked a songbird.