Frani and I's favorite Sopranos moment is an early one. When the ducks leave Tony's pool, and he begins to have debilitating panic attacks. The way James Gandolfini performs a character so vicious and yet deserving of a smidgen of sympathy is a gift the man had that many don't. God rest him.
A couple of weeks ago as Frani and I were going through the nightly constitutional of taking the dogs out, something stunned us both. For a couple of consecutive nights, we surprised a mourning dove, who could be heard chirping and fluttering up against the ceiling of the patio in a panic of sorts. I felt guilty both times, but was wondering what in the hell he/she was doing there well after dark.
The answer came days later. While I was at work, Frani sent me a text that made me smile. In the upside-down guard of a weed-whacker resting against the wall of the patio, right outside Cameron's window, was a nesting mourning dove. A few days later, another text came, this time Frani updating me that babies (or squabs) were peeking out from under the adult dove. They weren't just building the nest, they were brooding.
Bursts of research showed that the doves pick spots like this intentionally. The ceiling of the patio provides excellent cover from assholes like Blue Jays. It's wonderful in its ability to provide shelter from inclement weather, which Texas occasionally has in the spring. And human activity keeps away multiple types of predators.
We learned a few other things. How often they feed. How long the parents will stay, leave, and return. How quickly they will grow. We've become invested in these little guys, and hope that they do well. The parents have left them overnight twice as of this point, still returning to feed them. When we go out with the canines we can hear their alternating calls, which are probably alerts for the young, since they are almost the size of their parents at this point.
Sadly, they will be leaving soon. We've seen one jump to a neighboring shelf only to return when the parent came back. It won't be long before they legitimately leave, and according to what I've read, it's a one-way trip, in which the male takes over for a couple weeks teaching his kiddos to forage, seek shelter, and fly.
I just hope I don't turn into Tony Soprano when they do depart without return and have an aviary psychotic break.
Here's a video that I made in honor of this wonderful little injection of hardwired yet feathered and gorgeous nature into our lives.
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