A few months back, I bought a bird feeder. I wanted to see wings outside my window, and hoped that a dish of seeds and nuts would lure them. It took longer than I expected for anyone to notice, because there had never been anything yummy there before. But eventually word got out, and a steady stream of sparrows, robins, and cardinals graced my view. Something whose body is entirely lemon yellow stopped to snack, and I held my breath lest I frighten him. 

 

Then the squirrels showed up. I am a follower of Mark Rober of squirrel feeding fame, but I was less than enthusiastic about their presence. It would be one thing if the mammals took their turn politely, but instead they arrived with a thump, spilling food, and taxing the strength of the plastic bowl. 

 

In their greediness, they scared away the birds, and the feeder came unstuck from the window. 

 

For months I played their game, replacing the cache of food, and reattaching the feeder to the window. The birds would return in the early morning, since they apparently get up before squirrels. But soon the sound of the rodent's claws in my screen would remind me that he was in charge. 

 

I bought two more feeders, naively thinking that if there were enough for everyone the birds would still come, but the squirrel's hunger was ravenous. He continued to cause havoc.

 

This week I called a truce. The feeders, at least the unbroken ones, hang askew on the window, with not a morsel in them. I gave up. 

 

But this morning the squirrel was back to his antics, leaping from the bush, and scaling the screen onto what is left of the feeder. Didn't he notice that they are empty? He capsized them himself. 

 

It occurs to me that habits run deep, even for a creature whose routine is remarkably simple. When do I cling to old ways of doing things, long after they reap any scrap of reward? 

 

I will ponder this, using the boon of extra time I have, from not watching birds or trying to outsmart squirrels.