In moments of uncontrolled contemplation, the question arises as to whether animals also celebrate Christmas. The thought is not entirely far-fetched, because at the Ur-Christmas there were at least an ox and a donkey, and that could have set a precedent. On the other hand, it can be assumed that geese or carp are extremely skeptical about the festival.
But it can’t be entirely wrong to think of the animal world in these dark times when radiators should stay cold but hearts warm. On the first Sunday of Advent, for example, we placed a bird house in the premium segment on the balcony, which is architecturally based on the Nativity scene in Bethlehem. Our feathered friends should also enjoy the stade time at a richly set table – although some don’t deserve it. The Tirili every morning in spring still sounds painful in our ears, especially the blackbirds acted up as if they were the employers’ association’s wake-up call. You move specially from the country to the city so that the rooster doesn’t crow at dawn – and then that!
But forget it, you have to be able to forgive, especially at Christmas time, and our bird feeder is a sign of that. But what are these beasts doing? You ignore us. not a Bird, not even a raggedy little bastard showed up at our buffet. Spoiled pack, we thought at first, the inexpensive grain mixture from the discounter is probably not fine enough for you. It wouldn’t be surprising if, in a city where every rib-eye steak eater thinks they’re gourmets, the birds were gourmets too. Well, we’re in Munich, so get rid of the cheap stuff. Since then, fair trade organic sunflower seeds have been available in our manger, along with Christmas cookies from Dallmayr and a trio of fat dumplings, potato dumplings and bread dumplings.
After four weeks of waiting in vain, one has to state: Our birdseed is in as much demand as a vegan sausage platter at the farmers’ association. These bastards even despised the potato dumpling, which is now served as an accompaniment to the Christmas goose. But the height of cheek is that the whole flock of birds celebrates a feast every day on the balcony of Mr. K., our neighbor. Mr. K. doesn’t even have a real birdhouse, just a plastic plate with old bread crumbs lying between the beer bottles, the dried-up geraniums and the satellite dish. And that’s where the ungrateful brood feels at home. Blackbirds, thrushes, finches and starlings fly in and out every minute, which works more smoothly than on the S-Bahn, and even the green woodpecker, who otherwise does nothing but drum on the gutter, does the honors.
Admittedly, we have to nibble on the boycott of our manger. Nevertheless, we leave them, at least until January 6th. Here come, that’s for sure, the three holy wrens.