Having managed to scare the duck off at last, we’ve naturally developed a new wildlife problem. One of those cooing birds — my mom says he’s a pigeon, but I never heard pigeons making such a lovely noise in SF — has started appearing in the upper inside corner of our porch roof, and yesterday he brought a girlfriend. Looks like all the neighborhood wildlife wants to nest at our house, probably because they can sense the waves of love radiating from the place like a fond toaster oven.
“What happens if they nest there?” Gene asked this morning.
“We probably use the back entrance until their babies grow up,” I said. “Otherwise I think they’ll dive-bomb us.”
“Okay, they’re not nesting there,” he said. So today I’m going to put my little gargoyle statue up there and hope for the best.
But what’s next? Raccoons in the ice closet? Mice in the laundry chute? Or will some of the thousands of dentists in our four-block radius sneak over to couple up under the orange tree? It is a never-ending whirlwind of love and park-rangership over here, I tell you what.