Yesterday I was working in the yard, the cat stretched out on the driveway in front of me, when a horrible racket happened behind me. I turned to see two baby robins on the ground (I knew the nest was in the dogwood tree). The cat, moving faster than Hammie, the manic squirrel in "Over the Hedge," was on top of one of the nestlings in less than a heartbeat; just as fast, what seemed like a whole squadron of robins (probably only two, but flying like Blue Angels) were dive-bombing the cat. While all this was going on, every bird in a four-block radius set up some kind of alarm, and one of the nestlings decided it was a good idea to hop across the lawn and sit in the middle of the street. I picked up the cat, threw her inside the house and called for the kids. We spent the next hour chasing down the baby robins, improving a nest for them in a cardboard box and (for the kids, anyway) digging for worms to feed them. (The babies opened their little beaks imploringly whenever we came around.) The whole time, Mama Robin was perched in a tree--threatening, I imagined, to call her attorney if we didn't leave her babies alone.
And then, when nobody was looking, one of the nestlings discovered--hoorah!--it could fly. And a few minutes later--whaddaya know?--the other one did, too.
And then, belatedly, it occurred to me: they didn't fall out. Mama pushed 'em. It was time. And she wasn't protecting her babies; she was telling us to keep our grubby mitts off 'em, they were just fine. Which indeed they were.
The other day--no, I'm not changing the subject, bear with me--my nine-year-old came home from camp in a foul mood. Some kid had said something mean to her: "Look at you, trying to fit in." My first reaction was to go to camp with her the next day and snatch him baldheaded (as my Southern mama used to say). I stewed. I thought about her fragile ego. I thought about what a pissy thing that was to say to a kid who was indeed trying to fit in, and anyway, what's so wrong with that? And then it occurred to me to say, "Hey, the next time he says something nasty, just say to him, 'Are you this mean to everybody, or are you making a special effort just for me?'" My nine-year-old grinned. She liked it.
There are mean cats in her neighborhood, too, and I need to help her out from time to time. But she's like those baby birds: she only looks helpless.