The squawking of the minigulls (and their noisily protective parents), seems to have hit critical mass, for Mr. Dolgonsov. This morning, bright and early, I heard him out in the garden, yelling “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” I hastened to the window, and there he was, grasping his tufts of yellowed hair, and glowering at the roof. I was hoping that would happen. If ever anyone deserved a cacophony from above, it’s Mr. Dolgonosov. He’s got at least another month of shrieking to look forward to, if not more — how long does it take a little gull to feather up and learn to fly? Quite a while, as I recall — six weeks? Eight? Somewhere in that range, I’m sure. Meanwhile, their little pipings grow more strident, each day. They’re even learning those irritating alarm calls: gah-gah-gah. Gah-gah-gah! Gah-gah-gah!
I’m also mildly annoyed by all the noise, but I have the antidote. I have an iPod. If Mr. Dolgonosov didn’t kick birds, I’d get him one, too. But he does, so I won’t.
Meanwhile, on the balcony:
In my excitement over the minigulls, I’ve rather been neglecting my more constant companions, the sparrows. This is one of the worthless crapbawky’s offspring. So far, he (or she) remains fully-feathered.
And outdoors (see? See? I was outdoors!):
I found a flower, just outside my building. It was white.
