The Lady of the Hollow mentioned that the clothes dryer was taking twice as long to dry as normal. Never one to dawdle, the fat yellow dog was on the case. Turns out the exterior dryer exhaust vent was packed full of twigs. The conglomeration was carefully extracted and sent down to the boys at the lab.
Detailed analysis was performed and the discovery of pretty little eggs inside led Shrek to suspect a bird was involved.
Moments ago, I sat here in my chair with the front door propped open, reading to the soothing sounds of the fat yellow dog asleep on the porch. The birds at the feeder and hopping around his body were talking and chirping and yelling as they do. Suddenly, they scatter and I heard constrained chaos above the snoring. It’s a sound I recognize and it means that they’re about out of seed. I step out and see panic inside the feeder, the wings slapping the interior. The littlest of birds go inside for the food they see through the window, then can’t get out.
The terror of the situation must tire him out as he finally slows and I see that he’s blue. It takes more coaxing than you’d expect, but he finally streaks off.
This photograph by Mary Weems was taken in the hollow. Not sure what kind of owl it is, but there is evidence of at least four types of owls in the hollow. We have heard the distinctive calls of three types of owls – the great horned owl (or hoot owl), the screech owl, and the barred owl. I also once saw a white-faced barn owl, in of all places, the barn. We have seen large owls flying that are either great horned owls or barred owls – the two largest species of owls found in this area. There are other owls around but I’m not able to recognize their calls with any confidence.
This egg was brought in by one of the dogs yesterday. It must be a wild turkey egg – not sure what else it could be.
Tonight a single whip-poor-will was heard in the hollow. Several of these birds return annually from their winter homes along the Gulf Coast and southward to the hollow for the warmer months.
I was once attacked by a whip-poor-will along a lonely country road late at night after my pickup broke down. It beat me on the head and face with its wings and body again and again, until I ran away. Then it returned to its loud, rhythmic calls. What was that about, I wonder?