j'adore jackdaw

Here are two baby jackdaws that fell down two separate chimneys. Like the baby rooks they are not related.

 Also like the rooks they were given to me by a wildlife rescue centre as I am happy to help out by hand feeding them and also am around to be able to do so. I have called them Mr and Mrs Jim. Jim after Jim-ney - down which they fell.Collectively just referred to as the Jims.

 The Jims are smaller than the rooks but no less demanding. Every two hours. I had to take them to Bridport with me in a box the other day as I would have been unable to meet their busy eating schedule. I fed them in the car park by the beach and also in a lay by. Next week it'll be London.

 Meanwhile here is Mouse and Quigley2. They are now free range in the shade tunnel and have been joined by a third rook who I am not giving a name to and have never handled. He came being able to feed himself but not able to fly. He is learning and so are the boys.

 I refer to them as the boys but they may well be girls, particularly Quigley 2 who took a piece of food in his mouth, hopped over to Mouse and popped into his mouth. I was touched by his/her caring gesture. Mouse meanwhile likes picking up stones and making a little pile of them. They can both feed themselves but when they see me they jump up and down flapping their wings and opening their mouths - so just to humour them I pop bits of food in.

Took Rocket to a dog's festival the other day. It was wonderful - hundreds of dogs and nobody fought.
They had a terrier and lurcher racing event where you could bring your dog into the ring to chase a hankie which sped round on wires. Rocket was artful. Proudly watching him it reminded me of sport's day at the girls' school.
                                 

                                          

Pixie's interesting fact for this post is that Tug o War was an Olympic event from 1900- 1920

 This is one of Nancy's favourite places. The little seedlings and nice plants are all squashed. It's hard to garden with a dog who digs everything up and a cat who lies on everything.
I asked Pocket (photo not featured as already seen lounging on the dog bed with Rocket) for his pearls of wisdom particularly if he had anything wise to say about gardens and he said "It is idle, having planted an acorn in the morning, to expect that afternoon to sit in the shade of the oak."
I said "oh so you've read Antoine de Saint-Exupery?"  He blinked, looked at me idly and carried on sleeping.

 

Here is the garden at the Pink Tower (available to book on air BnB) where Rocket is not allowed so things aren't dug up here though once in a while the ducks get into it and trample a few things. The cats and Rocket are not allowed inside though once Rocket sneaked in and ate the chocolates I put on the bed.

The Fathers’ Race

From Dog Days by Linda Coggin

                     

            The school bell tolls as they jockey

at the line, casual, acting the goat

wishing they were dead or down the pub

still time to do that deal –

but then they’re off and scorching grass

as fast as squibs across the turf

past sons and daughters who perch

in mirth and dig each other in the ribs.

Brogues and trainers blaze the furlong

outrunning hares, with lungs protesting.

Men in nightmares running nude

with limbs of lead and feet in glue.

A cry goes up – a man is down.

Embarrassed as his father falls

one boy goes red and turns away.

As the first men pass the line to yells

and shouts, it seems that flowers sprout

within the empty grass that separates

the winners from the rest

and insects brave the crossing of

the track and big black birds sail and tack.

Then short of breath with barrel chests

the others totter in behind.

These are the slack, the flimsy men

the unstrung heroes of the field

the real winners of the race who

brave the torment of the chase

to whom the anthem should be sung.

For these are sons of fathers

who had never run for them.