Carolina Wren

I was watering my porch plants the other day and noticed that one of them wasn’t looking so good. Ellen had given me a beautiful Calibrachoa (don’t worry - I can’t pronounce it either) for Mother’s Day and it wasn’t nearly as pretty as it had been the week before. I keep all my green babies watered. I even use those pretty glass globes to make sure my plants stay refreshed. But this little flower was definitely in trouble. I also noticed that I hadn’t planted it deeply enough. Most unlike me. My practice is to put them at the same dirt level in their new home as the level at which they sat in their temporary pot. Very unusual.

As I stood there watering this sad little plant and wondering how to fix things, a little bird flew out of my plant. After I recovered from my dead faint (and verified that the bump I got on my head from hitting the porch was not a concussion), everything became crystal clear. All those plant questions were answered. This little bird had constructed a bunker in my planter, hence, the raised plants and dead roots.

I consider myself a live and let live kind of person. All the animals on our property are welcome as long as they stay in their territory and leave mine alone. The bears, coyotes and bobcats don’t bother me. They know their place and it isn’t close to mine. I’m okay with that. This little bird didn’t know her place. After a little googling I discovered that this was a Carolina Wren – hereinafter referred to as CW. When I say “make yourself at home” I am not talking to wrens.

So the other day I watered the plants that CW had not homesteaded on and sat on the porch sofa preparing to enjoy a good Agatha Christie mystery. I had a perfect view of the mountain, the humidity was at a comfortable low, and I could hear the calls of about ten other species of birds that had chosen to nest somewhere other than my Calibrachoa. The day was beautiful. The surroundings were beautiful. It didn’t get much better than this. Then my peaceful afternoon was shattered. CW started screeching at me. She decided that two creatures on my front porch were too many and she expected me to go.  She had a nest to worry about so I should probably leave.

I perfectly understood what she was saying because it was ugly. She was actually scolding me. How do you explain property ownership, deeds, we pay the bills, etc., to a little brown bird who wants you off her porch?

I was between CW and her nest. I was at a good place in my book, the weather was perfect and I was very contented on my perch. She was going to have to find a way to be contented with hers. I had no intention of giving up my comfy spot to someone much smaller. Frankly, I thought I could take her if the situation came to that. Obviously, she came to the same conclusion. I couldn’t concentrate on Agatha Christie with all this drama going on, so I just pretended to read.

First, CW hopped to the ground. She hopped the entire length of the porch across the mulch in the flower bed to the corner of the house, then hopped up to the far corner of the porch. Now the nest was between us. All she had to do was to fly up to her nest, but the people who make up funny phrases didn’t come up with ‘bird brain’ for no reason. CW’s little head kept darting left, then right, then left, then right, as she planned her strategy. She wouldn’t be good in team sports – she took too long to make decisions. Finally, she flew up to the top corner log and stared down at me and her nest.

Too bad she didn’t understand English. I could’ve told her, “The damage is already done. Go ahead and fly down to the nest that you killed my flower to build”. Since speaking my language wasn’t an option, she had to do things the hard way. CW began tiptoeing (or creeping, or scaling – you can choose the verb here) from the top log to my planter. Those little bird toenails clung to each log as she slowly crept down to her new home – my dead flowers. Eventually, she made it, after only a 30 minute trip across six feet of space. She had certainly chosen the scenic route.

Just so you know, if I see a bird beginning a nest in something I consider valuable, I will tear it up and encourage the bird to build elsewhere. Several years ago, it took me seven tries to discourage an Eastern Phoebe to go somewhere else. CW sort of sneaked in on me. But once the eggs are in there, I have to allow for squatter’s rights. I just wanted you to know that I’m not a real meanie.

I’ve decided that next year I’ll ask Ellen to give me plastic flowers for Mother’s Day. It’s hard to kill those.