The squawking of the minigulls (and their noisily protective parents), seems to have hit critical mass, for Mr. Dolgonsov. This morning, bright and early, I heard him out in the garden, yelling “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” I hastened to the window, and there he was, grasping his tufts of yellowed hair, and glowering at the roof. I was hoping that would happen. If ever anyone deserved a cacophony from above, it’s Mr. Dolgonosov. He’s got at least another month of shrieking to look forward to, if not more — how long does it take a little gull to feather up and learn to fly? Quite a while, as I recall — six weeks? Eight? Somewhere in that range, I’m sure. Meanwhile, their little pipings grow more strident, each day. They’re even learning those irritating alarm calls: gah-gah-gah. Gah-gah-gah! Gah-gah-gah!
I’m also mildly annoyed by all the noise, but I have the antidote. I have an iPod. If Mr. Dolgonosov didn’t kick birds, I’d get him one, too. But he does, so I won’t.
Meanwhile, on the balcony:
In my excitement over the minigulls, I’ve rather been neglecting my more constant companions, the sparrows. This is one of the worthless crapbawky’s offspring. So far, he (or she) remains fully-feathered.
And outdoors (see? See? I was outdoors!):
I found a flower, just outside my building. It was white.
I woke up this morning with THIS sitting on my face. (And it didn’t even tell me it loved me. I was under the impression an “I love you” was somewhat de rigueur, when sitting on somebody’s face. ;-)
In addition to having a moth on my face, I woke up with a gull looking in the window. I’d forgotten to set my alarm, and overslept by nearly three hours, during which time the morning crowd had emptied the feeder. The poor gull looked terribly confused. Ordinarily, breakfast’s served by seven, at the latest — but here we were, the morning half-gone, and nothing on the table.
The gull was so hungry, it didn’t even fly away, when I leaned out the window to fill the feeder. Its face was already in there, when I upended the seedbag. It ate and ate, while seeds cascaded over its head. Those minigulls must be eating it out of house and home! (Speaking of the minigulls, their wings seem to be developing quite nicely. They’re nowhere near flying, of course, but there are definite signs of feather growth.)
I spent most of my day working — I’m deeply entrenched in a nice, meaty project — but I did find a spot of time for the outdoors, somewhere in there:
Ceci n’est pas un oiseau.