I came back from the wildlife hospital the other day with nine assorted corvids in the back of my car. All young birds not yet flying - four jackdaws who squabble with each other, an assortment of crows and rooks, the young magpie and a raven.
I adore all corvids but especially ravens - this one has a damaged wing and was going to be put down but given a reprieve at the last moment when they thought perhaps I might nurse it back to health. It is young but if it survives will grow to be bigger than Nancy our black cat. If frightened they pretend they are dead - lying very still and not moving. It seems to be all beak with the shiniest dark eyes like black opals. In the wild animals do not have time for boredom. Survival, self-defense, hiding, finding shelter and food all demand great watchfulness, rapid reactions, cunning and forward thinking which fills their days completely but in captivity the range of available activities is drastically reduced. Being well fed and well housed can have the effect of numbing their senses so it's important I return these birds to the wild as soon as possible.
Too much possibility leads to the mad house Rinpoche Pocket informs me. "You've read Kierkegaard have you? "I say but he ignores me and pretends that the young quail that Scout has found hiding under the television table was nothing to do with him. I rescue it and return it to the wild and Scout stands by the TV convinced it is still there. "Well there was a possibility you might have killed it" I tell Pocket. Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust, he replies looking pleased with himself. "Cymbeline?" I say "You've become a Shakespeare scholar now have you?" But after telling me that nothing in his life became him like leaving it he wandered off to check with Scout that I had really removed the quail from under the TV to me frowning and saying "Macbeth?"
Rocket on the other hand has clearly become a painter's muse. He tells me that posing for Lucien Freud (above) was most exhausting
but that Queen Victoria had allowed him to be seated though that in itself was exhausting.
Much more relaxing to be at home though this picture will not be appearing in the Wallace Collection's exhibition of dog paintings.
Mrs Magpie is seen here enjoying a lazy Saturday morning with Pocket and the papers. Her beak is put out of joint by the birds in the shade tunnel and by the fact I like to stare out of the kitchen window at the spotted woodpecker that swings on the bird feeder. I love watching the birds on this and it is a prime example of
something good nearly always comes from something not so good. I used to have a hawthorn tree where the bird feeder is and my neighbour wished to cut it down as its roots interfered with one of his buildings. At first I was disappointed at its demise but if it had remained I'd never have bought the bird feeder which has given so much joy. (Also I planted a crab apple where the hawthorn had been and hope its roots don't interfere with the aforementioned building. )The belief that something good nearly always comes from something not so good was told to me by my grandfather. A relative of his who came from the same small Norfolk village had longed to start a new life in New York. He saved up £20 (a lot of money in those days) and set off to catch the boat wearing a smart new coat with brass buttons and a fancy waistcoat and a trunk made for him by the village carpenter. On the way in the coach he was given a drink, had all his money and belongings stolen and had to beg his way back home, his buttons all missing and his fancy waistcoat in threads. The boat left for New York without him but was lost at sea with all hands on board. So something good did happen for him out of something not so good.
Scout at the Sighthound meeting where they all chase each other round a large field. The sighthounds are now out of sight.
Scratch and sniff this for the heady scent of roses - my garden is full of them all gloriously blooming.
Another poem below from what I might call the Dust Collection.
