The tree is only four feet tall, not much of a safe place for a frantic little bird, and I began looking through the branches for the poor little critter, intending on grabbing it and putting it out the door. The wren, it seems, had other ideas. It had made friends with a small, brown artificial partridge, the last survivor of a box purchased at a floral supply house at the end of the 1980's.It was sitting very still-trying to hide- next to it's new friend. Truth be known, the artificial avids never actually looked much like partridges...and now that I think about it, peering in to the branches of the tree, it does look a lot like a Carolina wren.
I had a fleeting, OMG moment when I realized what was about to happen. Mr.Wren thought he had a girl friend. The origin of the word 'bird brain' crossed my mind just as the wren, now frustrated that the object of his affections was not only a tease, she was the bird equivalent of a blow-up doll. His reaction was to begin pecking at the artificial bird until he had pulled all the feathers off it's head and back-"Take that, you phony!" The tree was shaking violently and dried feathers were flying everywhere. There was a lot of flapping and ripping noises.
While he was busy denuding my partridge, I reached in and grabbed him. He let out a surprised little squeak.
He didn't make a sound as I lobbed him out the door. ( I was tempted to hum the Air Force Anthem, Off We Go Into The Wild, Blue Yonder. There were no appropriate Rick Springfield songs for this moment, except maybe, Love Somebody. Well, to be honest, he did try... the feathered little freak.)
I now have a twenty plus year old sad-looking, bald, yellow plastic partridge and a small pile of loose feathers. I'm sure a little Tacky Glue will take care of the problem, but neither the lovely little partridge or I will be the same. Neither will that Carolina wren, I'll bet.