We have a robin's nest in our gazebo, with three little chicks. Their greedy little beaks are open all the time, waiting for grub. (Literally.) We've watched them since the day they started building their home, undaunted by interest rates, and we've become rather attached to them.
I wish them well. My wife frets about them to the point where I think she wants to set up a college fund for the chicks.
"I think they've bonded with us," she said. "They accept our presence here."
"I think it's more likely they're stupid. No offense, Bob," I said to the male in the nest, who gave no indication he had been wounded by the remark. "They're basically machines. Now, corvids, those are smart. A crow not only recognizes faces but can memorize up to six Social Security numbers and use them in complex financial frauds. These guys have the IQ of wind-up toys."
Let us say we agreed to disagree on that one.
At some point she wondered if it was the robin she had rescued from death. A month ago she found a robin in the backyard, hopping intermittently, unable to fly. When she approached, she saw that it had been impaled by a thin stick. Perhaps it was swooping down to get some food, hadn't seen the thin, sharp stalk and now it had a 12-inch spear embedded in its torso. She pulled it out.
"You are now the Queen of All Robins," I said. "It is their way. It has been prophesied that a beautiful maiden will pull the stick from the Robin Prince, and the kingdom will be in harmony ever after."
It hopped around for a while, and when she went to the backyard half an hour later, it was gone. So it's possible it was one of those self-sealing robins, and indeed has chosen to bring up its young here to honor the Queen.