Well, this is an improvement. Sort of. There were no new trees planted in the yard this morning, no Wally Cleaver or John-Boy Walton perched up above building a nest. Just a box with air holes sitting under the Christmas tree.
The doves sure are cute little things. Their cooing is adorable, as is the way they poke their little heads out when they’re hungry. I can’t help but feel bad for them, though, stuck in those shells.
Stuffing a peaceful bird into a shell? Not coo.
They have to be cramped in there; as far as I can tell, they have no way to fully stretch out their wings. Walking is also a chore: even if they manage to poke their feet out, the shells are too heavy for them to stand upright. Although one of them has figured out how to maneuver by pulling itself around using its beak, mostly they stay where they are and coo quietly. I’ve been hand-feeding them bird seed and giving them water to drink in a tiny saucer.
Speaking of feeding, David Cassidy still hasn’t eaten.1 Also, despite the freezing temperatures and threat of snow last night, he repeatedly declined our invitations to join us inside.2 In the end, we decided that the least we could do was provide him with a couple of thick wool blankets to help protect him from the cold. He wouldn’t take them from us, of course. We were forced to haul out a ladder from the garage and drape the blankets over his back.
Goddammit, celebrities piss me off.
1 Or spoken. Maybe his contract stipulated a non-speaking role.
2 Sonya wouldn’t come in, either, unwilling to leave her post beneath the man in the tree. We offered her double her usual amount of treats, but she wouldn’t budge. I had to drag her inside by her collar, with her straining against me the entire way. Once locked in the house, she whined loudly at the back door for hours until I couldn’t take it any more, went downstairs, and let her out.