My husband often says that I care more about animals than people, and he's partially right. I care more about most animals than I do about some people.
His favorite example of my bias harks to a day when we were both watching the news and there was a story about a dog that nearly drowned and froze to death after trying to save his owner. The stupid teen aged kid had gone into a not-sufficiently-frozen pond against his parents' instructions and had fallen into a hole in the ice. The dog, trying to get him out, went after him and both had to be rescued, but the kid was pulled out first. When the rescuers finally dragged the dog out of the ice water, dripping, shivering and miserable, I wept.
"Don't you feel sorry for the kid who almost drowned?" my husband asked. "Not a bit," I said. "Look at all the trouble he got his dog into!"
Given what I'll admit is perhaps an almost fanatical love of animals, it's not surprising that while I won't be motivated to move out of the house on this dreary snow day to go to the gym or to do the errands I need to do for myself, I will be propelled into immediate action by the news that robins in Ohio are dying of hunger.
The story in the newspaper today said many robins stayed in Ohio this fall because of how mild it was but that they're now in big trouble because of this hell-froze-over cold. The report said the robins are dying of hunger (when they're not being flattened by idiotic drivers on Muirfield Drive) and recommended that people put out the food robins prefer to eat in order to help them survive.
The only problem is that what robins like most is: WORMS! LIVE WORMS! Eeewww!
Well, I swallowed my disgust (I'm a city girl, born and bred, so worms are not even part of my vocabulary) and rushed to the wild birds store to stock up on mealy worms, or whatever those things the robins like are called. I bought 500 in a plastic container and rushed back home to put some out for Mr. Robin, as I call the handsome, fat, orange-chested robin who hangs out at the heated bird bath my husband created using an old plastic bucket and an emergency light fixture.
Mr. Robin loves to drink from the warm water but his favorite pastime is actually to sit in the warm water, which is rather a kill joy for all the other birds who use it as a water source. Mr. Robin has tried to eat from the suet bars that hang from little green cages, but he's a ground-feeding bird so his spindly legs won't hold him long enough for him to peck at the suet.
Thus, Mr. Robin now has his own shallow dish of squiggly, squirmy, disgusting mealy worms. And he's absolutely delighted, which goes a long way (if not all the way) to help me forget the container of worms squirming, as we speak, in my refrigerator. Eeewww!
His favorite example of my bias harks to a day when we were both watching the news and there was a story about a dog that nearly drowned and froze to death after trying to save his owner. The stupid teen aged kid had gone into a not-sufficiently-frozen pond against his parents' instructions and had fallen into a hole in the ice. The dog, trying to get him out, went after him and both had to be rescued, but the kid was pulled out first. When the rescuers finally dragged the dog out of the ice water, dripping, shivering and miserable, I wept.
"Don't you feel sorry for the kid who almost drowned?" my husband asked. "Not a bit," I said. "Look at all the trouble he got his dog into!"
Given what I'll admit is perhaps an almost fanatical love of animals, it's not surprising that while I won't be motivated to move out of the house on this dreary snow day to go to the gym or to do the errands I need to do for myself, I will be propelled into immediate action by the news that robins in Ohio are dying of hunger.
The story in the newspaper today said many robins stayed in Ohio this fall because of how mild it was but that they're now in big trouble because of this hell-froze-over cold. The report said the robins are dying of hunger (when they're not being flattened by idiotic drivers on Muirfield Drive) and recommended that people put out the food robins prefer to eat in order to help them survive.
The only problem is that what robins like most is: WORMS! LIVE WORMS! Eeewww!
Well, I swallowed my disgust (I'm a city girl, born and bred, so worms are not even part of my vocabulary) and rushed to the wild birds store to stock up on mealy worms, or whatever those things the robins like are called. I bought 500 in a plastic container and rushed back home to put some out for Mr. Robin, as I call the handsome, fat, orange-chested robin who hangs out at the heated bird bath my husband created using an old plastic bucket and an emergency light fixture.
Mr. Robin loves to drink from the warm water but his favorite pastime is actually to sit in the warm water, which is rather a kill joy for all the other birds who use it as a water source. Mr. Robin has tried to eat from the suet bars that hang from little green cages, but he's a ground-feeding bird so his spindly legs won't hold him long enough for him to peck at the suet.
Thus, Mr. Robin now has his own shallow dish of squiggly, squirmy, disgusting mealy worms. And he's absolutely delighted, which goes a long way (if not all the way) to help me forget the container of worms squirming, as we speak, in my refrigerator. Eeewww!
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