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and attacked, repeatedly striking him on his rump at the base of his tail.
The cat would howl and make a run for the wheelbarrow. There he would crouch under cover with his injured tail curled around him, spitting at his tormentor. The mockingbird would prance around the wheelbarrow, hurling insults and daring Oliver to come out.
If Oliver expressed his indignation by lashing his tail, the bird would grab its tip and inflict a painful twist. Eventually Oliver would dash up the back porch steps and aim for his private entrance to safety. During this run the mockingbird would dive and nip repeatedly.
This went on all summer. Oliver would or could not abandon his favorite site for hole digging, and the mockingbird continued to watch and attack from the clothes line. Oliver grew thin and lethargic. He seemed to spend more and more time dozing on the back porch.
On a warm day in October I found Oliver under a rose bush. He seemed asleep. He wasn’t. Oliver had died quietly under the protective thorns.
Had Oliver just lived his appointed years and died of old age'? I am convinced there were other complications.
The next April Mimits began serenading us day and night. A nest was built in the honeysuckle tangle behind the clothes line. Eggs hatched, and 1 was now the focus of attack.
Cat lovers, 1 suspect, will not like this story. Birds are the love of my life, however.
Besides, one cannot help but respect any creature, with or without feathers, that protects its young with such ferocity. I am sure that in the days before the domestic cat was introduced into the New World, Mimus polyglottos was fearlessly attacking any bobcat that dared to climb a tree in search of a meal of young mockingbirds.
John Trott is a nationally recognized naturalist and teacher whose photographs of birds have been widely published. He lives in Flint Hill He invites reader comments and suggestions for future columns, and can be reached at P.O Box 515, Flint Hill. la. 22627.
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