I haven’t seen the goldfish for weeks. I’m not sure they’re still alive. Maybe they’re in hiding, butterfly finned refugees at the bottom of the 50 gallon stock tank, quivering in fear over dark henchmen. Grackles. Hideous black crows, who sound like they’re hocking up a loogie when they sing.
They’ve taken over the goldfish pond, destroyed the water lilies, and chased off the mourning doves and cardinals. Even the territorial mockingbirds avoid our yard. I can almost hear the goldfinch’s whistle, “There goes the neighborhood.”
Bacon opens the back door and yells, “Go get ’em, Jazzy.” She darts across the yard, barking like an under-fed Doberman. The nasty creatures swoosh up. The pup cocks her head in remembrance. “Oh yeah, they have wings.” They stay away just long enough for Jazz to amble to the patio door. Then they’re back—hocking, spitting, and pooping all over the lily pads—pecking away at the blossoms.
Maybe, grackles are dinosaur birds that, along with South Texas cockroaches, survived the ice age. Or maybe, they’re undead like vampires. Count Gracula.