//------------------------------// // Birdwatching // Story: Not another One-Shot-Ober // by Admiral Biscuit //------------------------------// Birdwatching Admiral Biscuit For forty long, agonizing years, Sir Loin had marched with the minotaur army. He never set down stakes; he was lucky if he camped in the same place two nights in a row. Finally—finally!—he had retired, and had promptly purchased a small house on the edge of town. The first week was good. He provisioned his new brick campsite, getting everything just so inside the house. The second week was all right; he moved a few things around, decided that he didn't like the curtains in the living room and exchanged them for different ones, and just settled in. The third week, boredom set in. He was a bull of action. Sitting in one place with no demands on his time at all wore on him more than any night awake in a rainstorm ever had. A quick recon mission among other retirees showed him what he was missing: a hobby. Something to pass the time. He gratefully took suggestions from other pensioners, which ate up much of a month. By the end of it, he was despairing at finding a hobby he might enjoy. Shipbuilding was too fiddly, and they usually broke when he tried to stuff them in bottles. Crossword puzzles were out; he'd never learned to read. Stamp collecting was just dumb; there was no challenge into visiting the post office and buying stamps; coin collecting was likewise silly. His neighbors complained about his attempt at gardening, and painting was likewise a failure. As he stormed down his front walk to the waste bin, an easel under one arm and a collection of mostly squeezed-out tubes of oil paint in his fist, he happened to glance up at his neighbor's house and noticed for the first time the small birdfeeder hung out front, and the cluster of birds around it. A faint smile brightened his face: he'd always liked watching birds. They'd gather around the camps, chirping cheerfully no matter what. Even the crows that sometimes followed the army . . . they had their place, too. He marched down to the hardware store, pausing only long enough to toss his painting supplies in his dustbin. An hour later, he marched back, shopping bags bulging with birdhouses and bird feeders and even a birdbath. The site of his former garden was quickly turned into a paradise for feathered friends. Small birdhouses hung from trees and from his eves; several types of feeder were hung, all within sight of his living room window and overstuffed armchair, and the birdbath occupied the very center of the arrangement, a small pump ensuring that there would be a continuous supply of fresh water. Satisfied with his day's work, he went back into the house and waited. The birds didn't come right away, but that was okay. He knew that birds were flighty, and might take a while to get used to the new feeders. * * * When he woke, he started his day as he always had. Get up, make the bed so a quarter-bit can be bounced off it, shower for three minutes, brush his teeth for two minutes, and then drink a pot of coffee. Suitably prepared for the new day, he opened his front door, located the newspaper which was wedged between the branches of his yew, and take it back to the living room to examine. He wasn't sure why he got a newspaper, but it had started coming when he'd moved into the house. He unrolled it, tossed the unread paper in a pile with all the rest, and walked into the kitchen, where he put the short length of twine into a drawer in case he needed it later for something. Just then, he looked up and noticed that his backyard was full of birds. Bluebirds were eating out of one feeder, chickadees were at another, and a pair of robins were pecking at the seed that had fallen on the ground. As he watched, a bluejay soared in, scattering the smaller birds. All that day he observed the birds, and things were going quite well until the late evening, when something large and unexpected swooped down and landed in his birdbath. Something that wasn't a bird, but rather a pegasus stallion. Just after it landed, two pegasus mares swooped in, landing on the ground and picking at the fallen seeds. The stallion, seeing them, fluffed out his wings and began bobbing his head in the age-old courtship ritual. Promptly, the two mares started paying attention to him, one of them flying up and awkwardly perching on the edge, while the other hooked her hooves over the lip and observed. Sir Loin sighed and grabbed his broom.