The Muskaducks Chill on Vacation

We have not seen the kind of excitement we had from Art’s visits this past week for several centuries, and we’re tired. Yes, in case you’re wondering if immortals ever get tired – they do.

But don’t get us wrong, they also snap back pretty fast. Just look at Wolverine. Athos is so fired up about how Art has helped us reach out to the wide world outside our sheltered park that pretty much all he quacks about is how he is going to write a blog series on the Middle East crisis.

When we ask him if he thinks maybe he’s biting off more than he can chew, he just swims away, waddles up onto the bank, and puts his head under his wing. That’s how we sleep, yes, but it’s also how we immortal ducks access all the centuries of memories we’ve stored up. When he does that, he’s gathering his thoughts on what he wants to say.

But it’s going to take a while. So consider us to be on what Texans around here would call a nice, lawwwwng summer vacation. Besides, Athos can’t really get his thoughts down on the computer without Art’s help, and Art is planning some summer vacation travel in June and July.

Like I twittered earlier today, it was a hot one here in our park, and Art kept cool in his home office working on some big HP announcements that are coming later in the summer.

But his lady took a brisk walk around the pond around midday and caught us sleeping under a bench, looking for all the world like common, ordinary ducks. We were miffed at first, but after hearing a rebroadcast on iTunes of a great sermon on humility by Bob Swan (naturally one of our favorite preachers), we decided to go ahead and post the image above that she captured. She uses Dropbox and gave us the account password.

But when Art came by later as it cooled off toward evening, we unanimously agreed that we needed an offsetting image where we would pose as immortally as we could.

Considering Athos’ resolve to write the next blog series after our summer break, we let him take top billing in this much more flattering image.

Anyway, hope you mortals all get a little summer time off too. We’ll be excited to get back to you, but please don’t expect it to be real soon. We overheard Art’s lady say something to him about “getting a life” and not just talking to ducks about bluebirds.

It seems they might be getting a lot of relatives visiting in the fall, and she would like him to do important stuff like move some plants to different places in the yard and clean out something called a garage – apparently a little side house that they fill up with so much stuff they don’t need that they can barely shelter their vehicles in it.

Mortals are so strange about hoarding things. They just don’t get it that there’s no point in worrying about tomorrow. If we did that… whoa, I don’t even want to think about it.

Well, have a chivalrous break, and try to be one for all… y’all. We’ll see you when we see you.

Oh yeah, for sporadic minor updates you can follow me, Porthos, on Tweeter at @muskaduck02, where I quack a little nonsense now and then that’s suitable to that unfavored social medium. Who the heck can say anything worthwhile in 140 characters?

The Trap (Final Chapter in Art's Bluebird Saga)

At our last meeting with the human mortal we call Art (after our beloved d’Artagnan), we three immortal Muskaducks had done what we do best these days – we had listened… and advised. We finally all agreed the male English sparrow had to go.

“So how did the man in the you tube… uh, euthanize the male English sparrow he caught in his trap?” repeated Arthos.

“It didn’t show how,” answered Art. “The video just ended with the captured bird in his hand, and didn’t go into what he did from there.”

 “Well that’s not very helpful,” said Aramis.

“You’re kidding,” said Athos.

“But the text below the video listed some options,” said Art.

“Life can be hard,” said Athos.

“It’s the death part that was bothering me,” said Art. “And the option for preparing the little CO₂ gas chamber looked depressingly complex.”

“There must have been some quick and easy options,” said Aramis, finally ready to embrace the inevitable.

“Actually, I concluded after all this research… that I would just buy a second birdhouse.”

“Awww,” said Aramis, starting to soften again.

“So I went back to Wild Birds Unlimited and actually had the second house paid for when the clerk said, ‘Oh look, here comes the president of the local Bluebird Society. Tell her what you’re trying to do.’

“Into the store came a sprightly older woman with short-cropped hair. I explained our situation with the sparrows. Then I explained my plan to sacrifice the first birdhouse to the sparrows and just hope they’d let our bluebird family occupy the second birdhouse. She just smiled, and looked me straight in the eye with a kind and understanding expression.

“She said, ‘You can’t allow any English sparrows to nest anywhere in your yard…”

“That’s what we advised you,” quacked Athos.

Art continued quoting the Bluebird Society president, “‘…because they will claim the whole territory and bully the bluebirds, or worse. They are a real threat to the native birds here. The English sparrows are not protected by law like the native birds are. There are no guarantees, but there’s a good chance your bluebirds may reclaim the nest box … IF… you trap the male sparrow and kill him. Then all his females will leave and the nest box will become available again.’”

“Oh,” said Aramis.

“Exactly what I said! I told her I’d seen that extreme solution mentioned on some web sites, but they weren’t clear how to go about it.

“She glanced at the clerk as if to say, ‘Well, we’ve got a real novice here, don’t we?’ Then this sweet looking grandma said, ‘You need to install a Van Ert trap in the box he’s claimed. When he goes in and springs the trap, then you put a mesh laundry bag over the box and release him into it. Make sure it’s a male English sparrow. Then take him in the laundry bag to a big rock and smash him hard on it, twice.’”

“I’ve done something similar to a few Englishmen myself,” said Athos.

“The next day I cleaned the sparrows’ nest clippings out of the nest box for the fourth and final time, installed and set the Van Ert trap, and then did my HP work on my laptop from the garden room, where I monitored the bird activity through our big picture windows.”

“When I looked up and saw the male sparrow land on the nest box with the trap in it my heart started beating so hard you’d think I was in battle or something.”

“You were,” said Athos.

“He went in through the hole. I didn’t hear the trap spring shut because I wasn’t outside, but I was sure it must have. Then to my amazement the little villain stuck his head out the hole and looked around. Then he flew out.  How is that even possible, I thought. “

“I’ll bet you set the spring too firmly,” said Athos. “You would need to set it on a hair trigger so the slightest weight would spring it. We did something similar in the battle of…”

“I know Athos, but not now mon Ami. Let Art finish.”

“But you’re absolutely right, Athos. I went out the sliding patio door, my heart still pounding like a jackhammer, and reset the trap on such a hair trigger that even a slight breeze would make it snap shut. When the trap is sprung in the nest box, a red circle shows through where the hole opening was so you can tell from a distance that you caught a bird. When I went back inside to wait, I was unable to work, so I just watched. Good thing, too, because now a female kept approaching the box with nesting material in her beak. I had to step outside twice to shoo her away. I knew if I trapped her I could still release her, but I didn’t want to deal with that.”

“Your chivalry is apparent,” I said to encourage our new friend.

“Thanks, Porthos, you don’t know how much that means to me,” said Art.

“The activity in the yard slowed down enough that I started working at my laptop again. Then all of a sudden, in my peripheral vision I saw something and glanced up just in time to see a bird fly into the box, which shook slightly as I heard the trap slap shut and saw little poofs of dust fly out of the hole, almost like in a cartoon. My heart had calmed, but now it went from 0 to 60 again as I realized this was really going to work, and I was really going to have to take action.

“I yelled to my wife in the other room, ‘Honey, I trapped a bird, but I’m afraid it may be a female,’ and headed out the patio door.  I opened the wooden door on the side of the nest box that has the Plexiglas so you can see inside, and found myself staring into the masked eyes of the male English sparrow! What a mix of emotions!  I was triumphant but also so upset about what I had to do next that I didn’t think to snap a picture with my phone.”

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the sensitive Aramis.

“Yeah, mine too!” Art responded. “Prayer was called for, as I was still struggling with the next step.

“I placed the mesh bag over the bird house and released him into it. He flapped for a while, then stopped. I was making myself think more Old Testament than New Testament as I carried him in the bag over to where I had stacked three heavy flagstones behind our garage.  I had thoroughly briefed my wife on the possibility of this tactic, which I had put off for many days now. She agreed I should plan it so there would be no way she would by chance witness it out the patio windows.

“Because I did not want my prey to suffer, I swung him unto the rock pile with such nervous, determined energy that I’m sure an onlooker would have thought I was very cruel…”

Art’s voice had a catch in it.

“You did what you had to, Art,” said Athos. “War is hell.”

Next came the longest silence since the four of us had first met up only a few days before. We could hear the water rippling in the brook and the redwing blackbirds singing in the tall pines above us. 

Ichabod the big white crane soared overhead, then landed among the cattails in the shallow water of the nearby pond.

“So how are things now?” asked Aramis finally.

“Well, I remained kind of upset the rest of that day – mad at the sparrow for being such a reprobate…”

“I’ve know many reprobates of several nationalities,” interrupted Athos, trying to be helpful, “like the time…”

“Not now, Athos,” I said.

Art continued, “…and maybe even a little upset with Google for putting so much information at my fingertips.”

“Don’t fret too much about that, Art. Ignorance is not bliss,” I ventured. “Those bluebirds in your yard were not safe until you dealt with the sparrow who was usurping their territory.”

“Porthos, remind me to do a blog post about the Israeli settlements and the Palestinians,” said Athos.

“Anyway,” said Art, “we now have two bluebird houses up in our backyard, so one day maybe both will be occupied by bluebirds. Both are protected by Magic Halos (those “moat” things) to discourage any new English sparrows from crossing the barrier. I’ve seen some sparrows around, but so far none have threatened the bluebird territory.

“Now a bluebird family is happily consuming our mealworms, flying back and forth all day between the houses, the feeder, and the fountain. Their behavior seems to indicate they’ll start nesting again. There’s time for two more broods this breeding season.”

“You’re a good man, Art,” I said, “and we enjoy your visits.”

“Thanks, Porthos. And you’ve become by far the strangest of my circle of friends. It’s been fun to get you guys set up with the social media technology to help you get your experiences and opinions out there.

“Let me know when Athos has a first draft of his blog post on the Middle East. Now there’s a topic that’s always fascinated me.”

The Muskaducks Weigh the Evidence

We have seen the carnage of battle many times, and narrowly escaped death ourselves more than once back when we were mortal Musketeers. 

But when Art pulled out that same little device he had used to capture our present-day duck images, poked at it a few times, and used it to show us that picture of a bluebird attacked and killed by an English sparrow, we were aghast.

“I’m thinking there may be a case here for honorable retribution,” said Athos.

Art said, “I’m afraid every bluebird site I visit recommends… a violent resolution to the English sparrow problem. They recommend getting a spring-loaded Van Ert trap that fits inside the house, and…”

“What about relocating them?” interrupted compassionate Aramis.

“The bluebird society website and all the other sites I looked up say not to, because then the evil sparrows will just do their dastardly deeds somewhere else.”

“I see,” said Aramis, clearly getting uncomfortable with where this was going. “So did you happen to look up any English Sparrow society web pages that might tell things from the sparrows’ point of view?”

“Well, I found on an Audobon Society site that they really don’t have any supporters at all any more on this side of the Atlantic.”

“What do you mean by ‘any more’?” asked Aramis.

“In the 1850’s a wave of immigrants in New York kinda missed these little birds they had been accustomed to in their native England. And they thought that introducing them to New York’s Central Park would help solve a problem -- an overabundance of green inch-worms . But it was a big mistake. Within 25 years (a really short time for immortals like you) English sparrows spread across the whole United States, and they have continued to rise to dominance as the population of native American songbirds has declined because of their ruthlessness.”

Athos, listening intently now, piped up, “Remind me to talk about the whole issue of immigration reform in a future blog post. You are going to set up a blog for us along with our Facebook and Twitter accounts, right Art?”

“Yes,” Art replied. “Because we’re running long today, I think this conversation will be in about the third post. But couldn’t immigration reform be rather controversial?”

“Are you kidding me? We’re talking about euthanasia in this post, aren’t we?!” quacked Athos.

“Relax, Art (can we call you Art?),” I said smiling. “Think about it. No topic is really too controversial for an unlikely trio of immortal Muskaducks like us to tackle, right?  Besides, nobody knows exactly where this park of ours is. And even if they did, what are they gonna do, kill us? We're immortal!”

“Touche,” said Art. “This could end up being an interesting vehicle.”

“Vehicle?” puzzled Aramis.

“Never mind. Can I continue my story?”

“Please do.”

“I knew the sweet lady who runs the little Just For the Birds shop was not likely to level with me on this controversial topic, so I went to a bigger chain store on I-45, Wild Birds Unlimited.”

“Do they sell those consarned duck decoys?” asked Aramis. “Because we’re immortal the hunters don’t bother us. But I’ve wasted countless days, years maybe, of my endless supply of time pursuing hot looking distant hens bobbing up and down on the pond, when they just turned out to be made of wood.”

“No, Aramis, just all kinds of supplies for bird watchers.”

Art whispered an aside in my ear (which is a trick to find), “Porthos, does he really learn that slowly? Reminds me of the male bluebird in our back yard who keeps banging his head on the Plexiglas front of the mealworm feeder instead of just going in and out of the holes on the sides.”

I just rolled my duck eyes and nodded.

“Anyway, the clerk showed me something called a ‘Magic Halo’ that can help keep sparrows away from your bluebird boxes.”

“I don’t have bluebird boxes,” said Aramis.

“Man, he really is dense, isn’t he? OK, any bluebird boxes. The ‘halo’ is really just a circular metal support mounted above the nest box, with weighted fishing line or hobby wire hanging down from it all around the box. Sparrows get freaked out by it and it can keep them from crossing the ‘barrier’.  But native birds fly right through it.”

“Oh, like a moat around a castle,” said Athos.

“Right, except that if a male sparrow fixates on the box and claims it before you get the halo up, then they can overcome their fear and go through anyway. And that’s what happened in our case, so the halo didn’t help.

“I must have cleaned out the beginnings of three messy English sparrow nests, and the determined male just kept dive bombing the bluebirds and rebuilding, time after time.”

“And you decided it was time for decisive action?” Athos asked.

“Not quite yet. I still wasn’t ready to take the advice in the websites, which was… you’re right, Athos… sparrow euthanasia.”

“What a sweet way to put it,” said Athos sarcastically. “So how are you supposed to snuff ‘ the buggers?”

“Athos!” quacked Aramis.

Art chuckled, which surprised the ducks, considering the gravity of the conversation.

“Sorry, you sounded like a well-known insurance commercial,” Art said.

“But that’s the trouble,” he went on. “The websites don’t give specifics, I think because they don’t want to offend bird lovers. Then I finally found a YouTube video showing how to use the Van Ert trap to catch a sparrow.

It ended with the guy just holding the sparrow and saying, ‘…and now that you have your bird, identify it to be sure it’s a male English sparrow.’  I wanted to say, ‘Yeah, fine… but then what?!’ ”

“What’s a you tube?” I asked.

“I’m sure he’ll tell us later, won’t you Art?” said Athos. “So how did the guy in the you tube ki… uh, euthanize the male sparrow?”

Art told us, and we advised him on what we thought he should do, but I need to wait and tell you that part tomorrow...

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Art Tells the Three Muskaducks His Serious Problem

When our new friend approached us the next day in the park, our former lives as Musketeers got a chance to shine through as his story unfolded and he sought our advice.

 Athos, who still thinks of himself as our leader, whispered, “I take back what I said about this guy reminding me of d’Artagnan – he’s a loser,” and started to make a move back to the brook to dive for dinner. I realized that from a human perspective that would be extremely rude -- the equivalent of mooning our new friend. 

But more importantly, I sensed his spiritual turmoil, and quacked as much to my comrades. Athos reacted to my insubordination by tucking his head under his wing. Aramis, supposedly the most spiritual of all of us, was obligated to at least try to understand, so he tuned back in to the poor man’s story.

“I agreed to go with my wife to Just For the Birds, a quaint little shop in Old Town Spring,” he said. “I was relieved to learn they had manageable, 6-foot bluebird house poles that could just be pushed or pounded right into the lawn (whew! No sweat, this is gonna be a breeze! I thought), so we bought one, along with their top of the line, super deluxe bluebird house, with reinforced entry hole and two side doors – one for observing the nesting activity through a Plexiglas shield and one for cleaning out the old nest after the baby bluebirds hatched and learned to fly.

“We sprinkled some dried mealworms on the roof of the house (hey, you guys might like those), and before we knew it we attracted a pair of bluebirds who started building a nice neat nest of pine needles in the house. My wife was thrilled, I was pretty tickled too, and now I could get back to my normal routine. Things were extra busy at the new HP.”

“Then you don’t have a problem,” interjected Aramis while Athos still pretended to sleep.

“But I do! This is just where it starts!” said our white-haired friend. (I never did get his name; let’s just call him… Art, short for d’Artagnan.)

“I’m hungry,” mumbled Athos, muffled from under his wing.

“Go on,” I said.

Art sighed heavily.

                      

“We like to watch the birds out our garden room window during meal times and from our patio when we’re just relaxing. That’s when we started to notice the fierce battle for territory around the new bluebird house.”

“Sounds like the French and the English,” said Athos, becoming more interested.

“It was pretty nasty,” said Art. “We saw English sparrows entering the house where the bluebirds had already started to build.”

“Aha!” said Athos, fully awake now, “blasted English!”

“They were building a very sloppy nest of grass, twigs, and random garbage right over the top of the nice neat bluebird nest structure. They just took over, attacking any bluebird that came near it.”

“Total lack of honor,” I quacked. “Thufferin' thuccotash!”

I knew I had messed up. It was Aramis who corrected me. “Porthos, nice impersonation of Mel Blanc there, but this is serious business. And anyway, although Mel did sound a little like your hero Daffy Duck when he said that, he was portraying Sylvester – a cat, you twit!”

I blushed a deep red, which on my green head came across as muddy brown, and hoped we could just drop it and move on.

“Guys, really,” said Art, “I’m really troubled by what I’m Googling about bluebirds and sparrows.”

“I thought we were talking about territorial warfare. What’s Googling?” asked Athos, trying to take charge and get the conversation back on a track he understood.

Art’s answer to Athos’ question is what led eventually to all of us getting Facebook and Twitter accounts, but it doesn’t deal directly with Art’s troubles, so we’ll save that stuff for later, if ever.

“I’m finding out that once a male English sparrow fixates on a nest box, he is more loyal to it than he is even to his mate, and he defends it above everything. He doesn’t even really have the same attachment to a mate that other birds do. He calls a flock of females to himself – kind of a harem – and even if they all left, he would stay with the nest box and just call more females to himself.”

“Even Porthos treats his many women better than that,” said Aramis.

At which I started to get red with anger, but stopped myself when I remembered how bad I look when my head turns brown.

 “And if bluebirds are already sitting on eggs?” I asked.

“This is where it gets really hard to look at the websites, Porthos,” Art answered. “The sparrows viciously attack and kill not only the eggs, but also the adult bluebirds. The bluebird society posts grissly pictures of this carnage on their sites so that humans won’t be tender-hearted and merciful toward the marauding English sparrows.”

“So what does the Google say is the answer?” asked Athos.

Art told us, and it’s quite controversial, but I need to wait and tell you tomorrow, because if I’ve learned anything about blogs, this post is long enough already.

To continue... (click here)

Three Muskaducks Meet a Troubled Art in the Park

The three of us have been through so much drama together (“All for one and one for all,” and all that), that it’s been most pleasant to find such a nice park in southeast Texas to spend the next few eons of our retirement.  It’s one of the nicest places we've found since the deranged son of the evil spy Milady de Winter bewitched us into immortal mallard drakes back in France toward the end of the 17^th century.

You can read about those days in Alexandre’s books about us, but today we have new lives and new stories to tell. And many mortals to whom it is our sacred duty to pass on the wisdom of our life experiences.

I should introduce myself. I’m Porthos – always was and always shall be the one with the greatest lust for life. And the best dressed of the Musketeers, which explains my superior appearance even in these Muskaduck bodies -- the deeper luster to my green head and the more pronounced blue speculum on each wing back near my neatly coifed D.A.

That’s me taking the lead in this lifelike daguerreotype...

The gentleman I’m going to tell you about captured this remarkable image in a strange, very small device that allowed him to share it with us instantly. I hope he’ll post it and tag us, as I wasn't in such good light in that earlier image where he first introduced us on his Facebook page back in April.

Aramis, although he thinks himself religious, is bringing up the rear, distracted as usual by a hen wading by. He has to be careful with that kind of behavior now that we each have our own Facebook accounts, and are even learning to quack on Twitter. Athos, standing between us striking his usual, self-important pose, will strive as always to keep us both in line.

But I digress. We were enjoying our peaceful, uneventful immortality in the park when we came across the gentleman I spoke of sitting forlornly on a park bench by the brook. Apparently catching a glimmer of who we really are, he regaled us with a tale of woe, beseeching our counsel. Although at first it paled in comparison to the dangers and adventures of our lives as Musketeers, he was most earnest in his distress, saying he desperately needed to get “closure” on something, whatever that means.

It’s been extremely rare in recent centuries for a mortal man or woman to engage us in this way, so when they do we drop everything, get our heads up out of the water, and pay attention. Besides, he touched on a subject dear to our hearts since our transformation – bird watching!

The poor downcast chap was quite distinguished looking, hair going white at the temples (and beyond), but looking not a day over 50. Athos said he reminded him of d’Artagnan, and we agreed. None of us believed he was technically retirement age like us. He said he was, but still had to work anyway. Sad. After dispensing with the small talk, he became grave once again, and we climbed up on the bank to listen intently.

It seems his lady wanted a bluebird house erected in their backyard. They had a garden that was already something of a sanctuary for many species of birds, who ate and bathed there in an artificially contrived nature setting of fake fountains and commercial feeding structures that they stocked with stale seeds from the store.

Cardinals, chickadees, hummingbirds, occasional woodpeckers, and even rare, green or golden colored migratory finches had been visiting, and that was fine with him. But one day his lady, who could hear high-pitched sounds in a range that was inaccessible to him, heard – and saw – something new. A male bluebird perched on their fence surveying their garden! She was so excited, because one had never come to their yard before. And one of her good friends had told her how ethereal it was to host returning families of bluebirds every year in her backyard.

Our new friend confided to us that his first thoughtless response, which he had been unable to stifle, had been, “Ethereal, schlamereal!” He shared with us how he pictured the work it would take to mount an unsightly bluebird house on a 10-ft pole, dig a deep hole in the middle of their nicely manicured lawn on a hot summer day, pour Sacrete (we had trouble understanding that part but eventually did), and probably never actually get a bluebird family to live there anyway.

Frankly, we were getting dreadfully bored (and hungry). This was not a problem worthy of our caliber of advice. He must have seen it in our downcast eyes that were drifting back to the rippling brook, because he stood up, started pacing back and forth on the hiking path, and said, “But that’s not at all what I wanted your advice on.”  And then he ran off, quite upset.

We all looked at one another (all for one, remember), as if to say, “This dude is a nut case.”  That turned out to be mostly true, but not for the reasons we were thinking so far. He returned to our park the next day, more composed, and finished his story. So I’ll tell you all I know in my next post to this blog (which we owe entirely to the troubled chap, who we came to know as Art, as you’ll see).

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