For a couple of days in early May, our yard was inundated with Carolina Wrens. The perched on the fence, the side of the house, the window screens, and with all this perching, they tortured Darby, our golden retriever.
She stared out the glass door, pointing with all earnestness, and with murder in her heart. In my naivete, I thought that when I opened the back door and let Darby out, the wrens, like all other birds that land in our yard, would scatter to the safety of the woods behind our house.
They did not. Rather they just fluttered further away...and not quickly enough. Twice Darby got one between her jaws, but between their fluttering and my scolding and rescue attempts, we were able to get it them to safety. And by this time, I had begun to lose patience and sympathy with these dimwits, who were not smart enough to take flight. "Survival of the fittest" was a phrase that began to rattle around my brain as Darby continued to see red. And finally she batted one down with her substantial paws, picked it up, and began to "play", but her playmate was not up to the task. Eventually, I got him away, but he had been mortally wounded...and I had no sympathy for it.
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