You might remember the poor mourning doves who were tortured by my daughter’s love of animals, as featured in the original Terror in Paradise post. Well, they have since abandoned their nest and are probably huddled in a tree somewhere, suffering from post-traumatic stress flashbacks that feature her piercingly high-pitched shrieks of adoration.
Unfortunately, they did not give due warning to the other birds in the neighborhood because another hapless pair has wandered into the Littlest Brewster’s domain.
When the DreadBrewer first told me there was a nest with an egg in it in the garden, I told him he should just throw it away because obviously it had blown out of a tree somewhere. ((This despite the fact that the nearest tree is at least 50 feet away…)) I mean, what sort of stupid bird lays a nest on the ground? In the middle of a bed of leeks?
The next day, though, there was another egg. And another the next day. And another the next. 4 eggs apparently being their limit, the birds (whom we had yet to see) stopped confounding us with eggs.
Shortly after the eggs all arrived, we got a chance to see the
idiotic amazing birds who had decided to nest among our leeks. After much observation, we’ve decided they are some type of plover, most likely a Killdeer. The identification of the birds was actually made possible due to the fact that they are friggin’ amazing parents. When any of us gets anywhere remotely close to the nest, whoever is on guard duty at the moment frantically runs out and starts flopping about like it’s seriously injured and stands no chance of escaping our carnivorous maws in order to draw us away from the eggs.
Unfortunately for the poor birds, who thought that they had found paradise far from the ocean in our leek bed, we are frequently in the garden. >650 square feet of raised beds don’t tend themselves.
So the poor birds alternate between throwing themselves around to attempt to draw us off (so vigorously that we’re worried they’re going to do real damage to themselves) and scolding us at the top of their little birdy lungs.
And the Littlest Brewster still loves to shout “Birdy” at them at the top of their lungs, much to their soul-crushing terror, I’m sure.
I sincerely hope that the mourning doves have a supply of beer or wine ready whenever the Killdeer decide that paradise this is decidedly not and head off to join them in the avian loony bin.