After our usual morning greeting I left four of the guardian dogs each with their respective bowl of food while I went off to feed the fifth who is situated with the rams. When I returned I watched with some amusement as this scene unfolded.
It just so happens that the dog in the photo is named Birdie; a name that has nothing to do with Magpies by the way. She’s a terribly picky eater and skips as many meals as she eats, which has nothing to do with her name either. As such she will often lie down nearby while other dogs eat and then leave to catch up with the sheep. But whether or not she wants to eat it, one thing that annoys her is Magpies diving in for her food.
The trouble with Magpies is their persistence.
The trouble with Magpies is that I like them. The guardian dogs do not share the sentiment.
The trouble with Magpies is that once you get to know them you kinda have to admire them. They’re wickedly intelligent and equally determined and they have become a dependable presence in this prairie solitude. They have raucous call that drives me nuts when there is crowd of them. Then again it’s a marvel how silently they fly and how effortlessly they float on the wind or glide into a landing. In the winter they are quiet for the most part, as though they hold some regard for the hibernating state of the place. On the contrary in the summer months I’m often pleading at them to be quiet already. More often than not a gang of Magpie’s hopping about in the air in the distance is the first indication of a death that we see. With their daily presence Magpies act like a constant reminder. A reminder of how you said you would do a thing and you haven’t yet done it.
I don’t recall ever paying much attention to the birds in my youth, or even in my adult years prior to moving here. Perhaps the noticing of birds is a measure of how deeply I’ve grown into the solitude here and the length of time I have been living it. I’m now a bona fide feeder of birds throughout the winter season. I believe it all started with Magpies.