The natives are restless in Drizzle Creek

By Jack Elliott
Correspondent

This past week the natives of Drizzle Creek were restless. Scores were either having or planning a garage sale. Sir Albert, the Duke of Drizzle Creek, was again gracing the debating table at the bakery with his benevolence and wisdom.
“It’s not my junk, it’s my sister’s, but I’ve got to make room for the winter to store my automotive collection, and my garden harvest,” he explained as he tucked into his breakfast, noting the sad lack of extra butter for the fried potatoes.
“Garden harvest! That one scrawny carrot and the wormy radishes!” snorted Moose who had also suffered a total crop failure.
That’s what comes of trying to grow a garden in a swamp.
Personally, as a professional packrat, I bypassed the garage sale route to make room in my storage, and took a heaping load directly to the dump. It was a wonderful mental and physical exercise. I not only found a few tools I had been accusing the neighbours of misappropriating, my memory was thoroughly probed as I wondered why I had saved all this junk in the first place. Oh, and to my neighbours, I’ll probably get those borrowed tools back to you any day now.
On the nature front the resident hummers right on schedule, have abandoned the feeding station after sucking up a quart of sugar water every day for the past month and are headed south for the winter. Man if I could only produce insulin like they must. No smart cracks now about my lack of personal exercise.
Other strange birds are also active here in Drizzle Creek.
With retirement leaving unscheduled time on his hands, the Runt, one of Drizzle Creek society’s waterfront elite, has been busy putting the finishing touches on his riverside estate. His new dock is a marvel of functional and aesthetically pleasant design. A scavenged hydro pole, replete with a wrapping of anchor rope graces the end of this new pier giving it a rustic Cape Cod flavour and providing a balance support for any unstable passengers coming ashore. The final item was an authentic plastic seagull sitting atop the post to welcome, but not poop on guests.
“It looked really classy, but it only lasted one day,” whined the Runt as he scooped a forkful of scrambled eggs onto his toast and inhaled it in two bites.
“I think that Great Horned Owl that’s been hanging around my house attacked it. I’ve been seeing seagull feathers on my lawn and by the dock so I guess he figured it was a free lunch. Ripped it clean in two,” he explained as he accidentally reached for a piece of Sir Ab’s toast, but quickly withdrew his hand as a vicious royal swipe warned him off.
“You’ve got a horny owl around your yard? How can you tell?” questioned Cousin It, always interested in anything with a sexual connotation.
“No! A Great Horned Owl. And I can tell it’s around because it’s sitting out in those spruce trees hooting and squawking for the better part of the night. Driving me nuts,” he protested as he morosely eyed his now empty plate.
“After eating the better part of a plastic seagull, I should think he may have a slight digestive problem,” commented Moose, ever ready to venture an expert opinion.
I had to agree because like Moose, who can shoot but can’t hit anything, this Great Horned Owl can hoot but can’t... Well you get the picture.