05/06/2007

View from Sunnybank

Dive! Dive! Robin attacks a hood!

By Dee Blair
Local columnist
dblair@
voyager.net

Read Dee's past columns here
Read Dee's Good Dirt blog

The robust, orange-breasted robin's neck feathers bristled; he sensed the intense gaze of something wicked stalking his mate, and him.

Nervously, both ceased construction of their nest and flew to the alley telephone wires to scan the immediate area. Yes! There! A huge, gray-backed cat was poised right on the edge of the garage rooftop; slitted yellow eyes were locked onto their cleverly situated, hard-to-reach nest, only a few yards away.

The Beast was motionless, except for the tip of his tail, which twitched ominously, giving silent voice to his intentions. Those claws — long, sharp and deadly — dug into the roof tiles; the well-fed body was utterly still.

The robins knew that cat; they'd seen other hapless residents efficiently dispatched last year. They knew what would happen if they ever lost concentration and nerve and allowed that stealthy monster to sneak up on them.

Exactly then, an agitated squirrel squawked an alarm from the fence top; the whole garden knew something was about to "go down.” Chippie vanished; mourning doves ceased cooing. The air was electric.

The male robin shifted his body and fluffed his wings, knowing he had but one choice; ATTACK! Or lose it all. Without pausing to think, he launched himself, flying directly at the stalker, beak leading the way, throwing every ounce of strength and speed into this first, crucial dive.

Cat, old now, caught in an exposed position, realized instantly that the angry bird wouldn't hesitate to rake him. Fat garden worms had provided strength; now outrage fueled the bird's dive.

Before he could fully process what was happening, Robin was on him, claws extended, wings perfectly balanced.

Cat felt needles barely rake his furred spine. Hunched, he backed away from the edge and up the roof ridge slightly. Fangs gleamed as he snarled, more annoyed than afraid.

Seeing the small retreat, Robin took heart and made another pass, then another, giving voice to his rage. The intense barrage was unsettling, not to mention embarrassing. Each swoop forced the feline back another inch.

He found it difficult to anticipate the different attack angles; some came from right out of the mid-morning sun, some from the south.

All threatened his unprotected back.

Off balance, reluctant to swat at him up there on the roof, Cat gathered his tattered dignity, moved quickly to the overhanging maple tree and backed down carefully.

He was doing his best to ignore the furious robin, who continued his dives, master, for now, of the situation.

I looked up, admiring the aerobatics, then looked back; Cat had vanished.

Robin finally perched, exhausted, on the high wire, with his mate close by. Together they huddled up there, silent, knowing it wasn't over, but committed now to the position they'd taken.

She had eggs to deliver; they had a big nest nearing completion. Life, for many weeks, was going to be incredibly hard. Predators were everywhere; winds and lashing rains could make nesting a misery; sudden frosts were possible. Constant vigilance was paramount; sleep would be a luxury.

Providing the massive amounts of food necessary to sustain the coming family would severely test their resolve. But the rewards were immense.

If they made no serious mistakes, their children would grow strong, then leave home consummate avians.

They'd find mates of their own, bring forth children, and protect them just as fiercely. Their lineage would continue.

Heartened by the temporary victory, both birds struck up lusty songs; the female added mossy, finishing touches to their home.

This minute, with the young day's sun on their wings, life was good.

Dee Blair has cultivated her English secret garden at Sunnybank on Sixth Street in Traverse City for 15 years. She can be reached care of the Record Eagle, or via e-mail at dblair@voyager.net. Also, see her blog, which often elaborates on columns, at blogs.record-eagle.com.