SO, there I was, sitting with a blackbird on my knee. I think I've mentioned Spot to you before. He's so-called because he has a white spot on the side of his heid. My use of the controversial pronoun "he" tells you that Spot is male. And yet he seemed single-handedly to be bringing up a couple of sproglings.
He used regularly to bring them down to show me. I'd put bits of crushed peanut (not whole ones, in case the young ones choke) out and he'd ferry them back to the chicks a few feet away. It got to the stage that, whenever I appeared in the back-garde
n, Spot would come down immediately. Sometimes, I'd be standing meditating with my eyes closed – as you do – and, when I opened them, Spot would be in the flower-bed a couple of feet away, watching me indulgently and thinking I wasn't a bad sort, if a bit odd.
I should say, apropos my bombshell opening sentence, that Spot never lingered long on my kneelobe. I'd stick a piece of peanut there and, warily, he'd sneak up, then hop on and off quickly and spirit the morsel away. One day, when he'd finished feeding, he sat beside me on my garden-bench, all fluffed up and with one leg retracted to give it a rest.
It was the same day he thought I was going to kill him. You have spat out your Golden Grahams in horror. Do not be alarmed. I will explain everything. It happened like this. I'd retreated into the hoose, and Spot had followed me thither. I was amazed at how unafraid he was, an outdoor creature in this suburban cave. I was in the kitchen and watched as he hopped along the tiny hallway and into the sitting-room. If you think my beard contains a lot of food, you should see my carpets. Spot found plenty to consume, then suddenly seemed to wake as from a dream and say to himself: "What the hell am I doing here in the troll's house?" Looking edgy, he hopped up on to the fireplace mirror and doofered down it, as birds do. Then he sat on the telly before flying over to the tall Gothic pine bookcase to check out my collection of Tolkien books.
Next, in a surprise development, he tried to smash his way through the window. Cunningly using nuts, I enticed him out of the sitting-room, but instead of heading for the exit he took a detour into the kitchen. He made for the window and started panicking, banging his beak against the pane then clawing at it vigorously. His terror-driven breath became visible against the glass. Using a dishtowel, I got hold of him and he emitted rhythmic squeaks of fear. But, as I held him gently, he calmed down. It's funny how birds and animals do this. You see it on these vet programmes all the time. Creatures seem to know when you're trying to help them, to have sussed that you're a kind person and not a member of the Countryside Alliance.
Freed outside, he fluttered off and, shortly afterwards, was back at the bench, looking for nuts, as if nothing had happened. I was glad of this as, most days, he was the only living thing I could have a conversation with. But, eventually, Spot stopped coming to see me. I don't know whether a cat got his chicks and he blamed me. There are two cats in the neighbourhood, one good and one evil. The evil one is a strutting tom who defecates defiantly on the places where the birds are fed. But I think at least one of the chicks has grown to early maturity, and I still see Spot in the greenery and sometimes on the lawn. He acts as if we'd never met.
One evening, when I was tiddly and he was yodelling his property rights from the roof, I threw a pebble at him, so annoyed was I at this cruel desertion. As a top Taoist sage, I know that all is change, but sometimes I get tired of it and would emulate the elves of Lothlorien, who pickled their paradise in aspic, by slowing down time. But even they knew this could not last. Nothing does.
STOP PRESS: An amazing thing has just happened. I didn't know how to finish this column, and went out to the back-garden to eat a jeely piece in the hope of gaining inspiration. Spot came down to the edge of the grass, about five feet away, fluffed himself up and trilled a song straight at me. I have translated the trill. It says: "No offence, Man With Beard. I still want to be pals. I just got fed up with your nuts."
The full article contains 823 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
