A bird in the bush is worth being in your hand

t was still raining yesterday. I so passionately dislike the rain; I would rather hold my needs for hours than suffer the indignanty of wet paws. However, The Woman worries when my refusals to venture outdoors last for more than a day, and outside she drags me into the drizzly mists of the backyard forests, hoping for my cooperation.

As we walked the backsteps to the garden, I found this:

(borrowed from internet)

"Size matters not. Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you?"

Wounded as it was, this Blue Jay was insistent upon claiming my backyard as his own. The Challenge. The Chase. I pursued my insultor with vigor, who flew into the dense shubberies, continuing to scream his insults at my heritage, my birth, and my species. Intolerable. I made several attempts to penetrate his fortress, but the leash, oh the damned leash, prevented me from pursuing my insolent avian enemy.

The Man admires the Blue Jay for its tenacity and its fearlessness. The Woman has been feeding two of them for the summer, and watching their family life closely. Candy tried to take one once, and fled the yard in terror.

Now was my turn, and I am dragged from my quarry and placed back into the house as so The Woman might seek to capture what is rightfully mine.

I loudly protest while she seeks the bird.

She returns empty handed. I scold her for denying me the opportunity to prove my hertiage, the honor of my mother, and prove to her that Shibas were born to seek out and destroy whatever decidedly challenges their existence. She ignores my pleas to return out back and instead, we walk the streets filled with puddles and soggy grass.

My paws are wet. I am most displeased.

There are more birds gathering in the backyard in search of seed. Cardinals, Titmice, Sparrows and Chickadees. But I am patient. I shall await the return of my foe, even if it means having to seek for him within the driving snows of winter or under the blazing sun of the summer's heat.



I Am Shiba. Call Me Ishmael.