Pssh-pssh-pssh-EEEAAAAAGGGHHHH!

Two things that happened to me before breakfast, today:

1) I put on my coat, and a spider fell out of the sleeve;
2) I got attacked by a renegade song sparrow.

Thing the first: well, there’s not much more to that. Coat; spider; thirty-second chase — aw, rats; spider’s attained the brown living-room carpet, and is now invisible — no, wait; there it is — squash; no more spider. It’s funny, though. Just a day or two ago, I was thinking it’d been a while since a spider had come in, and poof…spider. Hmm. It’s been a while since anybody’s given me a really expensive present, like a 500mm Nikon-compatible lens, or a piece of real estate. Eh? No? Ah, well.

Thing the second: I feel a bit silly, here — try not to laugh too hard — but I read on the Internet that a sneaky hissing noise, like pssh-pssh-pssh-pssh-pssh-pssh, is catnip to birds, and will draw them in from far and wide, to investigate. This noise is supposed to be especially attractive to small passerines. I like small passerines. I hear small passerines. I know they’re out there, hiding in the bushes. Why not give it a go?

About ten minutes into my balcony hiss-a-thon, this showed up —

Seriously?  Are you kidding me?

Seriously? Are you kidding me?

Really? That’s what I get? I can’t even credit my hissing: that sparrow’s a daily visitor. I know it’s the same one by its feet (note the odd-coloured claws). Also, when it looked up from its feed and noticed me hissing at it, it seemed more annoyed than intrigued. It did a wee spring forward, and issued a warning squeak. Quite aggressive, for such a small bird. I tried again, in case, y’know, it hadn’t heard me right, and the wee bugger CHARGED me! I swear, if I hadn’t shut the door, it might’ve entered my living room. (The horror!) It stood on the railing and stared, for a while, before returning to its meal.

So. I’ve been chastised by a sparrow, and my neighbours probably think I’m some sort of…hissing maniac. Nice morning’s birding, what?

(Anyone else tried this hissing technique? Could it be that I’m doing it wrong? Do my teeth whistle too much? Am I supposed to wet my lips first? Do I hiss fast, like pshpshpshpshpshpshpsh, or at a more relaxed rate, like pssssssssh … pssssssssssssssssh … pssssssssssssssssssssssh? Aw, soddit; damn birds — too clever by half!)

Distant churblings

I’d planned a longish walk*, for today — down Bucketwheel, across Leg In Boot Square, and back round Moberly Road, with frequent stops for birdly investigations — but my plans were obstructed by a public spitter. He’d parked his car smack bang outside my building, between me and my intended route, and there he leant, swigging from a water bottle and spitting on the ground. He spat and spat, making the most egregious squelch, squelch, ptooees. He spat between his teeth, and the water squirted in bifurcated streams: he must’ve had a tooth with gaps on either side of it, so he could spit like that. He only paused in his spitting to clear his throat loudly and repeatedly, no doubt coughing up all manner of ghastly expectorates, to add to the mix. I was quite repulsed. I didn’t want to walk past him, in case he spat on me. And I couldn’t just wait for him to go, because his spit could’ve spread out by then, and how would I know where to step, to keep my shoes from the contaminated area?

Beyond the spitter, I could hear the cheepings and churblings of a hundred tiny birds. I picked out robins and chickadees, the peepings of bushtits, song sparrows’ aggressive chirrups, and other sounds, ones I couldn’t identify, all tantalising and out of reach. I should’ve gone around the other way. Only, Monk McQueen’s is that way, and it always smells of fish — faugh. Who invented fish? What lousy creatures!

Over the spitter’s shoulder, I spied a crow, picking something apparently edible from an evergreen tree.

Crow on Moberly Road, eating something it plucked out of a pinecone.

Crow on Moberly Road, eating something it plucked out of a pinecone.

Later, from my balcony, I saw a little white duck, with a black patch on the back of its head, and round its neck — what could that’ve been? If the spitter hadn’t been there, I could’ve got closer, got a picture, added it to my bird list.

It's a crow!

It’s a crow!

On another note, is it possible to get second-hand high from one’s neighbours’ pot fumes? Because I was out on the balcony, after my failed walk, and a marijuana smell kept blowing up my nose. For about fifteen minutes, I could smell marijuana; then, I got hungry, so I went inside. Could I have had the munchies? I mean, one doesn’t ordinarily get hungry, while smelling a nasty smell. But I don’t feel high. Or, at least, I don’t think I do. What does “high” feel like? (Note that I hadn’t smelt the marijuana when I let the spitter spoil my plans: that lapse in courage was all my own.)

* By the loosest possible standards of length. The route described is about the circumference of a city block.