WARNING – WARNING – WARNING

 

This post contains explicit descriptions of avian sexual activity. Reader discretion is advised.

 

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Mourning doves are just too dumb to live.

 

It’s dangerous to place a value on intelligence, especially in non-mammals. After all, a number of creatures that have survived the longest without finding it necessary to make any evolutionary changes are not known for their intellect. Crocodiles and sharks come to mind.

 

But, still, from what I’ve seen, mourning doves just don’t have the sense God gave a fencepost. Maybe it’s just the doves out back of my house. In any case, that is one stupid bunch of birds.

 

Oh, sure, they make that sweet little noise that sounds like they’re, well, mourning. And they’re very pretty – all plump and soft-looking. And one of their cousins is supposed to represent peace. And their name and profile have been adopted by a successful line of lotions and shampoos.

 

Nevertheless.

 

I have a bird feeder and a birdbath within a few feet of my patio door, so there are a lot of birds out there a lot of the time. I get sparrows and blackbirds, blue jays and cardinals, robins and doves. The squirrels make more-or-less successful raids on the feeder, and the rabbits pick up whatever falls on the ground.

 

When I walk by the window or the door, they all scatter. The birds fly away, the squirrels jump to the tree, and the rabbits run. Even Twit, the baby rabbit who is inexorably destroying my impatiens, has the sense to fluff up his little white tail as a warning flag to the rest of his family, and hop away.

 

All except the doves, that is. They sit there, munching away, watching their cohorts head for safety, and looking confused. I swear, if I were a boa constrictor, I could slither over there, grab one of them, squeeze the life out of him, and have him half eaten before his buddies figured out anything was wrong.

 

“Hey, Gomer, look at that. They all left. Just leaves more for us, huh? Whaddya suppose that was all about, Gomer? Gomer? Where’d he go?”

 

During warm weather, of course, the birdbath lives up to its name. There always seems to be a bird over there, splashing and preening. In the winter, it serves only as drinking water.

 

The doves have the disconcerting habit of sitting there on the rim, facing away from the water, with their tails dragging in the water. In the summer, that doesn’t seem unreasonable. But in the winter I have seen as many as six of them, all facing outward, with their tails submerged in near-freezing water. I suppose they have no more feeling in their feathers than I have in my hair. But in mid-winter, my being outside with wet hair would have little survival benefit.

 

Earlier this year, I noticed a pair of doves on the patio, one of them being fed by the other. At first I thought it was parent and baby, but it soon became apparent that it was a mating pair, and he was offering her tidbits of food to get her in the mood.

 

Finally she decided the time was right, and hunkered down in what I have to assume is the approved gesture of receptivity. He strutted around to her backside, started to get himself in position – and fell off.

 

By then, my quasi-voyeuristic opportunity had turned into a raunchy Vaudeville act. As I left, he was following her around saying things like, “Aw, common, baby. Gimme another chance, huh? Really, that never happened to me before….”

 

Still, we do not lack for mourning doves. So some of them, somewhere, must be avoiding boa constrictors, keeping their tail feathers warm and dry, and mating successfully.

 

Just not, apparently, in my back yard.

 

Posted by Sharon under Laughter | No Comments »