The Cheeky Wee Chaffinch and The Schneechie-Cat

The Schneech sits at the kitchen window waiting for the birds to come for the seeds I've put on the window ledge for them.

This morning, a cheeky little chaffinch stood his ground. Has he come to realise that the Schneech can't get at him through the glass? Or is he just hapless; one of life's losers - stupid, a chance taker; a bit like me, I suppose.

He seems aware that the glass is keeping him safe, for now. Yet then, does he know about summertime - and the possibility that the glass won't always be there, between him and the abominable Schneecher.

He won't be so much in need of the seeds in summer. However, it says on the seeds' packaging that the birds come to rely on the food we put out for them, so I might be putting my little cheeky chaffie friend into great danger. Some friend I am!

I wonder if the neighbours think I'm a psychopath, luring chaffinches into the claws of my cat for sport or even because I'm too mean to buy cat food.

The Schneech's behaviour has changed a little too; she's stopped diving at the glass. Maybe now she’s realised that she can look, but not touch. It seems experience has overridden instinct. Yet, given a chance, she'd have one of these chaffies; I know.

Now she crouches down, with her little pink nose slightly beneath the frame, her eyes just visible, no doubt, from outside - ears back, to keep her profile as low as possible. Looking like a lurking crocodile, I suspect, from outside. I’m sure the neighbours think I'm a psychopath. Every so often, her tail will swish, and my wife's pen or makeup stuff will go skittering across the bunker.

"Schneechie, leave the birds alone; they're hungry. You don't need to chase birds; you have plenty of food." Gawd I'm getting soft in the head in my old age - telling a cat not to behave like a cat.

I’m not that old I suppose, at sixty-two. Somebody said recently that old age doesn't start until we're about seventy these days. They'd better not tell the government that, or we'll all have to work until we're eighty.

I wonder if that wee chaffie has one of these risk-taking genes in it. Some people have that; or is it a bug they get, that affects their brain? Yes, I think that's what I heard. Anyways, I think they just dream these things up to sell newspapers.

He comes right up to the seeds, cocks his wee head from side to side to get a good scan at the Schneecher and me, and then blithely sets about helping himself to his lunch. “Get in there boy; goo-on; fill yer boots!”

"He Who Dares Wins, Rodney", said Del Boy. Although the SAS motto is actually 'Who Dares Wins'. I think Del Boy's version makes more sense - even with ‘Rodney’ tagged to the end. Not all SAS guys are called Big Shuggie.

Anyway, I'm not such a daredevil myself these days. I certainly wouldn't be as daring as that little chaffie. Yet, then, if I was hungry, it might be a different matter.

"Schneechie, leave the birds alone they're hungry. And you’ve got the eyeliner on the floor now!"

I wonder if that's why they're out in the streets in Egypt this week. Are they hungry? Is it desperation? Having so little - have they therefore, so little to lose?

"I get you the best meat in town Schneechie. And you won't eat it. You make a gesture with your paw, as if to bury it like one of your poohs. You put your nose in the air - and your tail too, and you glide away with such grace. With your tail bent at the tip, like a little pennant.”

That wee chaffie's either very clever, or very stupid: Clever, if he knows about double-glazing - stupid if he doesn’t.

"What would you do - if you caught hold of one of these bonny wee chaffies? You'd just destroy a life - for nothing.

"But Schneechie, all of our lives are purely chance. You came here after the Daisy Doosh died. You'd had a difficult time, I know; you wouldn't let the big stinking primates pick you up; you fought us all off with your back paws - they loop-de-looped right over your head and attacked from a skyward angle like a Spitfire appearing out of the Sun and seeing off a Stuka Bomber.  You were astonishingly expert at that sort of combat, and I wonder still, what experiences in your life made such expertise necessary.  

“You still don't like being picked up - you thole it now. Yet in a crisis you don't object - like that time when we got locked in the garage together, when the wind slammed the door on us and I started kicking violently at the door, and you got spooked, and let out that eerie yowl. Yet, when I picked you up to comfort you, expecting to be repulsed in a mêlée of slashing claws and gnashing teeth, instead you snuggled into my chest, like a baby - good in a crisis - a team player - unexpected trust.

“And Schneechie, when you were lost that time, and I found you after a week of desperation, about a mile away in the bushes - did you think of me, and this house? Or, did you spend your time chasing chaffies? Your shiny black coat had lost its shine and you looked as thin as the day you came here from that rescue place - deprived of your kittens, shaved, and scarred from the vet's operations. I'd 'phoned and leafleted all around - and advertised in the Hawick News.

I shouldn't wonder that you chased chaffies that cold and stressful week; we all must eat. We both knew what our priority was then; it was to get you home as soon as possible. I’ll never forget how your voice descended through two octaves, as you emerged from the bushes. I didn’t know cats’ voices could go that low - a baritone cat. We were both so glad to see each other.

“Now, often, your eyes crinkle at me, like grannies’ eyes crinkling at children; that's friendship.

“I know you’re happy now too; everybody deserves to be happy. Your needs are well met, and I have fun company - why would you need to hurt that audacious wee chaffie?

“Is that why the banksters can never get enough? Is it some kind of primeval instinct? Is there an interminable want? Do some people get so bored and unfulfilled in life, that they’re driven to blood sport - and its derivatives?"
© amillar 2011