She's b-a-c-k ... maybe

LBJ nest No. 3 is about one third completed. (Don Dale photo, 2011)

My determined little LBJ has returned for the third time to build a nest in my front-porch light fixture.

Three days ago I saw her fly away as I ventured out onto the front porch to pick up the morning paper.

I decided to reward her singular determination by letting her have her way. To help, I set off for the hardware store to buy a 15-watt bulb to replace the 40-watt bulb in the fixture. I thought a lower-watt bulb would produce less heat and -- maybe -- this time her eggs wouldn't be cooked before they hatched.

(Who knew 15-watt bulbs would be twice as expensive as 40-watt bulbs? But no matter. I bought the damned bulbs.)

Since then, there has been no progress on the nest, and I haven't seen the LBJ.

It's been wet and chilly here for the past few days. Maybe she doesn't want to harvest wet grass from my front lawn. Maybe now that it's drier and warmer she'll come back to continue creating a place to lay her eggs. Or maybe not. What do I know? I really don't fathom squat about birds and their nesting habits.

But I hope she does come back. Her perseverance ought to be rewarded.

This all reminds me of the time a few years back when I had another domestic encounter with wildlife. It was the dead of winter, and I was reading a good book when I hard faint scratching noises coming from the woodstove insert in my fireplace.

Boo and Atticus, my two cats at the time, went on full alert. They parked themselves in front of the woodstove and began making quiet curiosity chirps.

Was there an errant bird trapped in my woodstove? And, if so, what to do?

I had heard a first-hand account from one of my co-workers who had faced the same situation. When she opened her woodstove door, a soot-covered bird flew out. Using a broom, she eventually chased the bird out of her front door, but the cleanup bill -- she had to hire a professional service -- was staggering. There was soot on the draperies, the rugs, the furniture, the walls and ceilings. A panicked, soot-covered bird can make a world-class mess.

So I did nothing. I didn't open the woodstove door. I tried to ignore the faint scratching noises. Better a dead bird who lacked the good sense to stay out of chimneys than a giant cleaning bill. Think of it as Darwinian.

Trust me, though: I felt bad about it.

Gradually over the next four days there were fewer and fewer scratching noises. Boo and Atticus lost interest.

On the fifth day, I decided to open the door.

When I did, a startled squirrel was looking out at me.

I slammed the door shut.

And thought about what to do next.

And wondered how he had survived for five days without food or water.

At least a squirrel wouldn't be flying around the room leaving soot in his wake, I thought. He'd stay on the floor. A vacuum cleaner would take care of any problems.

I propped the front door open. I s-l-o-w-l-y opened the woodstove door. The squirrel looked at me, shook himself, and scampered for daylight and up onto a lower branch of the willow oak in the front yard.

He sat there for a moment, staring at me. I stared back at him.

Then he cussed me out, longly and loudly, then scampered further up the tree, screaming squirrel imprecations all the way.

Perhaps, as with the squirrel, I'll be lucky with my LBJ. She'll return, finish her nest, lay her eggs, raise her babies, and live happily ever after.

And once again I'll escape without metaphorical wildlife blood on my hands.

That's what I hope, anyway.