'Cause when you can't think of anything to blog about, why not delve into the odd proclivities of your backyard fauna, right? Right.
It all started last spring. I noticed two cardinals flitting about the yard, chasing each other through the trees and thought "Oh, how sweet. Young love." Then I noticed the two birds were both BRIGHT red. "Oh," I thought. "Young GAY love." Then I noticed the female cardinal, poor drab little thing, sitting in the birdbath and splashing and primping for all she was worth, doing everything she could to turn their heads. "Poor thing," I thought. "Guess she hasn't developed her gaydar." I can sympathize. I have impeccably fine-tuned 'dar now, but when I was young and naive, not always so much. Anyway, I called my gay best friend to tell him I had gay birds. He had apparently missed the "gay agenda" meeting where the discussion of recruiting birds had been discussed, but was nonetheless pleased to know the birds were so confident in their own sexuality, and we made various and sundry gay bird jokes. Neither of us managed to come up with the perfect punch line, however. That was done by his clever (and oh, so handsome) partner: "It's Brokebeak Mountain." Heehee! Of course it is.
A few days ago, I noticed the alternative lifestyle choices were not contained to the birds. I looked up to see a large, beautiful butterfly resting on a pile of my dog Pudge's fresh poop, looking for all the world like he was sipping nectar from a petal. Now, I'm sure that Pudge would like to think that his poop smells like flowers, but I know that not to be the case. "Oh dear," I thought, "a butterfly fetishist." Obviously intent on enjoying a nice Dirty Sanchez or Hot Karl. Ewww. I'm not one to judge, however. Whatever goes on between consenting adult butterflies is their business.
I have to say, though, between the birds and the butterflies and the spider who likes to sneak a peek, it's apparent I live in a very... lively neighborhood. My 5-month-old female kitten has apparently felt the sexually charged vibe, as well. She recently went into a very early first heat. I was waiting until the weather cooled off to get her spayed--I thought I had plenty of time. Oops. Fortunately the only intact male in the house is her littermate, and he seems to have no idea that he should be interested. (That's my sweet little boy.) She's still so young and tiny. There's no way she could carry babies to term. The little slut. (Hee.) I named her after my best friend's sadly departed mother, at his request. We were both a little chagrined to see her acting so trampily. "Was your mother an early bloomer?" "Well, I heard she was quite saucy in her day." Wherever she is, I hope she's amused. (And the spaying and neutering was scheduled asap.)