The boy and the bushtits

Kiwi got the bushtits.

No, that's not a porn title. It's the latest casualty in my front yard experiment.

This has been a banner year for wildlife. This spring, sucky though it has been, thanks to that rainy goddess La Nina, has seen a lot of traffic through our yard. Bird traffic, that is. (I feel like I am singing the Beverly Hillbillies theme song. "Oil, that is. Black gold. Texas tea...")

Before Kiwi

But ma and pa bushtit didn't make a mansion, they made a purse. I watched them and it was so cool. You know how I love accessories. They wove a dangling bag out of lichen and moss and it was so pretty. Here. Take a look.

They put it in the coastal silk tassel bush, one of my native plants that is finally getting burly enough for a nest. Or so they thought. But they built the thing pretty close to the ground, only 4 feet up and right by the sidewalk. I guess available property must be a little scarce around here. But I watched them doing their frantic race, sneaking up to the nest and then the whole thing shaking like Santa's belly when they got inside to the babies, jostling for their bit of jelly.

After Kiwi

Then Kiwi the cat found it. I threw water on him when I saw him stalking it. I even woke up in the middle of the night and thought maybe I should put a cookie sheet of water under the nest to keep him away... but the next day it was torn in two. Bye-bye baby bushtits.

I am a little more sanguine about this than I was a couple years ago when I annihilated the nest full of chickadees with my bbq plume. Helps that it wasn't my fault, plus the Fox just turned 3. He is burlier too.

You see, it's a numbers game. The older they get, the higher their survival chances are. At least with baby animals. And also, the more of them there are, the better the chance that enough will make it to keep things going. It's a numbers game. Like dating, like democracy, like craps. (Even though I've never played craps, I'm pretty sure I'm right about that.)  Funny, its easy to be philosophical about other species as populations instead of individuals. I know that human procreation is a numbers game too, though so far we are holding at one. He just turned three.

In the days leading up to his birthday, he kept saying "And everybody will sing 'Happy Birthday' to me!" I loved that it was about music, not stuff. I shouldn't make everything into a moral crossroads, but sometimes I can't help myself. Though I think we might have blown that with the complete craziness. New room (bunk bed up high, his own nest), new play structure, couch full of presents from family and friends. He is sleeping in his new nest as I write this, saving up some rest for the party later today. We'll burn some sausages and garden burgers on the barbie, and all his 3 year old friends will sing "Happy Birthday" to him. Spring. Joy and loss. Hope and realization and disappointment. He is growing so fast, like the sunflower seeds I had time to start in pots for the first time since he was born. Some of them will get to be 12, 16 feet tall.
A Forest of flowers that will give seeds to the birds in the fall. And there will be enough seeds to save some, I hope. For next spring, when he'll be four.  The silk tassel bush will be taller  and so will he and the experiment with new life will begin again.