And now today’s journal…

At the end of this you may feel the need to report me to a psych ward at a local hospital. Or you may find some answers to why you and I are so much alike. Either way it’s trouble.

If you’ve been following along with my “Travel” Journals, you know that birds adore me. (You can read entries 206 and 211 for background.)

And I, well, I would like them all to die a slow painful death. I exaggerate. Quick and painless would be just fine. Not really. I only want them out off my property. They’re filthy creatures.

Here’s the paradox: I try hard to save a bird once it’s born. And yes, I’m some sort of reverse hypocrite… I do in fact beat their nests out of my trees with a broom while they’re building them. But once they succeed and lay eggs I try to protect the babies. If that makes me sound complicated, I’m not. Just koo-koo. It all makes sense in what’s left of my mind.

My bird issues are simple. When it rains the birds gather on my porch and poop themselves silly. On the railings, the porch furniture, my HAMMOCK! It’s unacceptable behavior and not very neighborly.

But despite my violent efforts to keep birds from nesting in my trees and vines at least four nests made it. FOUR! Unbelievable. How did they miss me swinging that broom handle bashing wannabe nests? Wouldn’t they instinctively avoid the lunatic flailing away? And go down the street. Heck my next door neighbor has a bird feeder! Go there. He likes you!

No. They adore me. My trees. My yard. It’s worm-O-licious! I have an irrigation system and the worm population is already in midseason form.

I honestly don’t get wild animals. They’re mostly instinct. They have no ethics. And this is my core beef with them.

Remember that wind “event” we had, was it last week? Well one of the four nests blew over baby bird egg and all. So I grabbed my leather work gloves (I know if I touch the egg with my skin momma bird isn’t smart enough to look past that) and I saved the egg from certain death on the ground. Now the nest was beyond saving so I took the egg to another nest which had no eggs yet. I figured in hard times we all have to pull together blah, blah, blah. I did this in full view of momma bird… and the other two birds which had built the nest that survived the storm. That’s right. Everyone was in. They all knew.

It was “The Three Little Pigs” being acted out by birds... and one slightly off center man.

Well guess what. The birds who built the stronger nest pecked a hole in the egg killing the baby. What the? Come on people. Work with me here. We have a tragic wind event and everyone needs to chip in and make sacrifices!

Nope. Birds don’t have souls. They care only for themselves. They say all dogs go to heaven. I say all birds rot in hell.

I admit animals in the wild are a challenge for me to understand. Here’s why… I was born in 1960 and raised on the film “Born Free.” I was very near my 6th birthday when my whole family sat and watched the television premiere and cried our little eyes out. That lion cub Elsa stole my heart.

In the animal kingdom “Born Free” became my bible. I have forever tried to talk with and love and respect all animals. I’m 46 and still believe I can talk to any animal. And for that matter, any film with talking animals immediately ranks in my top 10 favorite movies…. Just below “It’s a Wonderful Life” at #1 and “Schindler’s List,” at #2 is #3 “Babe,” the talking pig movie. I love me some Babe.

I can still sing almost word for word the title song to “Born Free.”

I had my own “Born Free” experience once. I rescued an abandoned turtle from certain death. I was a journalist working in Missouri reporting on a tornado recovery effort. We had just finished our shoot and I was walking across a wide open hay field heading for my news car when I stumbled over what felt like a huge rock. I looked down and the rock was very slowly crawling away. It turned out to be a sizable turtle…. roughly 8 inches across. I thought to myself, “You poor thing. I bet that tornado picked you up and whipped your little body miles from your home. It’s a miracle you survived.”

So, being the giver I am, I picked her up, named her Ruby (after the Rubideaux River just a few hundred yards away), and put her in my news car. I figured I could study what kind of turtles she is and release her back into the wild, happy and whole. I set her on the back seat, assuming she would like to look out the window as we made our way back to the newsroom in Springfield, Missouri. Didn’t want her to get car sick.

The curious thing about turtles is how quickly they move when you’re not looking. By the time I got back to the TV station, Ruby was M.I.A. I knew she was somewhere in the car but didn’t have time to hunt. So I shut the door, went inside and did my live shots for the 6 O’clock News.

After the news I searched the car and found Ruby clinging to the carpet up under the brake pedal. Don’t ask.

Long story short I brought her into the newsroom put her in an empty paper box and jumped onto the internet to see what she eats and where she likes to live.

Uh-oh. There on the computer screen was a Ruby look-a-like… a Box Turtle. They can be found in several environments… a big ole’ field is one. Basically I kidnapped this poor turtle from her natural habitat. Dang.

It was dark by now and I had no choice but to take her home for the evening. So I tossed a bunch of grass, a bowl of water, a stick, a tomato and some lettuce in the box and set it on my balcony overnight.

In the morning I carried the box and Ruby to a giant field with w stream running through it just down the road from my place. It had high-tension lines running through it so I knew it wouldn’t be developed. I took Ruby to the creek’s edge, told her I loved her, was sorry for terrorizing her for the last 14 hours and set her about a foot from the water in some nice tall grass.

Then I stepped back and under my breath started singing, “Born Free, as free as the wind blows, as free as grass grows…”

Still puts a tear in my eye.

I never saw Ruby again. I couldn’t go back for fear she would run and jump in my arms… or worse, not remember me at all.

Every once in a while I think of Ruby… and Elsa… and remind myself that it’s okay to talk with them but I have to leave wild animals alone. I can’t interfere with nature. Not even defenseless bird eggs.

These are the thoughts of a madman raised in the 60s.

Peace,

Mike Redding