It’s the Bluejay Crisis of 2009. Day 1.
We’ve known for several weeks that we had a pair of nesting bluejays in the back yard. As of today, however, any person (or dog) that ventured out the back door was subjected to screechy dive bombing about the head and shoulders.
Eventually, we deduced the cause for this anti-social behavior. One of their adolescent babies had fallen out of the nest and was hopping around on our back porch.This bird is about 1/2 to 2/3 the size of the adults, is old enough to have all the color and markings of a jay, but not quite old enough to fly.
It’s difficult to determine at this point who is more agitated and distressed about the situation–the mama bird or Mrs. Blather.
Being a clueless male, I felt it my responsibility to point out to the women of the house that nearly 100% of birds that fall out of the nest don’t survive. I think this helped everyone.
My bride sent me out to rescue the helpless creature. Shrieking streaks of blue took turns targeting my corneas. I lasted about 15 seconds before running back into the house (in a manly way.)
Later, she decided to try to get some food to the grounded avian. Mrs. Blather took a piece of bread and headed out the back door. I suggested she chew it, swallow it, and regurgitate it for the birdlet. Again, I think this advice was appreciated.
Darkness fell with no resolution to the crisis. I don’t know what tomorrow may hold . . . but it might involve the renting of a beekeepers hat and 20 foot extension ladder.