Someone, or something, has killed our bird table.
I looked out of the kitchen window at lunch time, surveying our domain (and loving the path which is happening a lot right now) and noticed that the bird table was not where it should have been.
Looking again, and over the window box, I could see a leg of the table sticking into the air.
The bird table had been killed. It was down on the patio and it was somewhat the worse for wear.
It’s served us well over the years. We bought it some time ago, and it’s been out in all weathers since then. It’s fed birds small and large. It was, for some time, Trixie’s chosen sleeping spot. It has once had a lush carpet of grass – I assume wheat or somesuch – growing upon it as the birds shunned that particular seed.
It has done well.
Its days, though, are numbered.
Its beautiful roof is broken. Smashed beyond repair by the combination of gravity and paving slabs.
It’s just a mystery as to what has happened.
There are two possibilities.
One is that nice next door’s grandchild has hoofed his football over the fence (this morning he was playing – on his own – as Man Utd and Huddersfield Town complete with commentary) and caught the table, knocking it over. If that is the case, then there is a small element of them all playing dumb as, this evening, our neighbour asked what had happened to it as she was trying to ascertain what fate had befallen her concrete Lisa Simpson.
Or, the second option is that it had been visited by Trixie. Presumably she jumped at it, messed it up incredibly and took the whole thing down with her, probably scaring the bejesus out of her in the process.
Both are viable.
As I say, a one-child football match was witnessed this morning.
But then there’s also quite a lot of black cat fur adorning the sides of the bird table. I’ve not consciously noticed it before. It’s possible that they’ve been there for some time, as with the tuft attached to the top of the shed door which came during a particularly graceful feline dismount into a box of freshly purchased plants.
There’s a lot of evidence pointing towards a feline terrorist. Maybe she thought – given that she’s always eating – that if she pushed the bird table over the birds would then dine on the floor. Where she could catch them and eat them joyfully, leaving bits around the garden to scare Carole (there are feathers in the shed….).
Or it might have been Carole, because the other day I did say it would be nice to get a new birdtable, and we have just gotten all that lovely new garden stuff. I wouldn’t be shocked if it turned out that she’d gone out this morning and violently booted it over.