In the evenings, I sit in my reading chair and read, at least for a bit, and glance (okay, glare) over the top of the book, at the birdfeeder.
The birds won’t come. They don’t seem to want the suet cakes. I can’t imagine why: Seeds encased in solidified slime. Yum. It reminds me of that stuff they used to sell in health food stores in the 1970s, which my mother insisted on feeding me instead of Wonder Bread and Pop Tarts and all the yummy stuff that emerged from my classmates’ lunchboxes.
I like birds and I’m enjoying this book about birding (note the use of correct terminology), but the birds clearly don’t like me very much. I think they may have heard there’s a Hitchcock fan in the house. Either that, or the birdhouse people up the street actually do put seed in all those houses. There is one other possible explanation, of course: My husband might, maybe, could have been a teensy bit right.
But I think they just don’t like the suet cakes.