Blackbirds, I’ve read, live an average of two to three years. I swear to you, White Spot was already here when I bought my place in 1985. Thirty years later...
From the very beginning he was the toughest dude on the patch: nobody, but nobody, gave him stick. Over the years this included my cats, who always ceded him space.
White Spot has been the only one of the scores of blackbirds, starlings and sparrows that show up for daily feedings who’d let me come within inches. And when I’d feed the cat on the deck he’d approach to arm’s length. From there, he would peer sideways at the cat, who’d peer sideways back. When the cat finished, White Spot would hustle over and clean up the dish.
Upon arrival of my new ginger a few years back, White Spot played the seniority card and demanded his personal share of Shayna’s jellymeat. Should I be late with a feeding, he’d simply stroll in the house, hop his way into the kitchen and mosey over to the biscuit bowl. Shayna might do one of those low-slung crouches a short distance away, wagging his behind and staring daggers. But that’s where he’d remain until White Spot finished, fluffed his feathers, deposited a small thank-you note and hopped on out again.
Every spring he would take a mate, a new babe each year. And though I’m hardly qualified to judge, I can easily imagine she’d be the prize of the pack. I never spotted their nests, but come late spring he’d begin bringing the kids around to show them his human servant’s feeders. By mid-summer once again he’d be solo and independent.
The past year he began growing more and more scraggly. He lost all the feathers on his head, most of his tail was gone, a wing hung half-detached. When he could barely move, he’d let me hand feed him, then struggle up to the birdbath for his post-meal wash.
White Spot departed his wonderful life on a recent drizzly morning. I miss him dearly.
