Mr. Robin is a gentle soul. Perhaps a little too gentle for the live-and-let-die world out there.
I crumble the suet that he loves into a large round dish (he's already gobbled up all the mealy worms I had in the fridge) and while the cockroach-colored starlings and the wily squirrels waste no time in elbowing each other to get a piece of the butter-textured and bug-peppered chunks, Mr. Robin waits politely on the sidelines for his turn, which, of course, never comes before the suet is gone. The starlings and the squirrels don't hesitate to edge, peck or nip anyone out of their way to the suet but Mr. Robin refuses to sink so low.
That means I almost have a part-time job in shooing away the starlings, who intriguingly seem to know it's specifically them that I'm objecting to. They're the only ones to fly away, not too far, but far enough to hope they've given me the idea that they're leaving. They must know they're unwelcome outcasts at the bird feeder. And while I'm generally an underdog kind of person, the bully starlings don't usually move me to compassion.
Mr. Robin, however, has me on pins and needles. Is he finding enough to eat (sure looks like it from his rather portly size)? Does he have enough fresh water? Will he be at the bird feeder tomorrow or will he, like so many of his cousins, give up the ghost to this most hateful of winters?
I'd like to teach Mr. Robin to be a little more assertive and less polite in his desire to make a good impression on everyone at the bird feeder. I'd like to tell him that while it's always laudable to be considerate of others, he must think of himself first.
In the bird world, as in our own, self-lessness can be a liability if there are others out there actively working to help you starve so that they can flourish.
2 comments:
This parable is a good one. I hear you. (I think I was supposed to hear you?)
It's not actually a parable, since every word is true (Mr. Robin is too polite by far). But as I wrote it, I also hoped you'd hear, too. :)
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