One day, earlier this month, I was in the yard with Daddy. He was attached to me by a leash that was hooked to my collar, so he didn’t wander away. We walked over to the big pine tree where the birdhouse was hung. Daddy stopped and looked at the tiny wooden structure.
Sticking out of the birdhouse was a robin. It wasn’t moving. Daddy came near it and determined the bird was deceased. Finding the robin carcass was strange. I have been told it is because when one dies a scavenger carries off the body. I don’t think so. I think birds are immortal. Unless something untoward happens to them.
Daddy reached in his pocket, took out a poop bag, grabbed the bird, pulled it out of the house and threw the body in the trash, a rather inglorious end to what I am sure was a rich life.
When we got inside, I told River what had happened, and she was equally as curious. We both knew the ugly truth. The bird did not die of natural causes; he was murdered inside the birdhouse!
I had to crack the case and bring the offending creature to justice. At first, I suspected another bird but the only way a bird could have committed the murder was to be in the house at the time of the assault, and if it were it would have become trapped when the carcass got stuck in the door. But the house was empty. I thought that the bird could have been shot from the outside of the house, but birds can’t shoot a gun.
But a squirrel can!
We all know we can’t trust squirrels. They are vile and vicious creatures. I reconstructed the crime. There must have been a fight, probably over bird seed since the house was near the feeder. The bird likely was hoarding food. The squirrel got a weapon, after all, we know they can get their paws on anything, climbed the tree with the gun in its mouth, hung off a branch, and fired the weapon into the opening. The squirrels only failing was that the shot was not instantly fatal. The bird had enough strength to pull itself out of the house where it died at the entrance.
I wanted to get out and interview the suspects, but the snows came. I had to wait until it melted. I was preparing to start my interviews when I heard my parents talking.
They had arranged to take the tree down because so many pines had fallen during the storms and it was a threat to the house and shed.
Poppycock! My parents were part of the conspiracy. They were destroying the scene of the crime! I don’t know what this bird knew and when he knew it, but I know my parents conspired with the hated squirrels to take him out.
I don’t know if I will ever get justice for the poor bird with both the squirrels and my parents working against me. But every time I go outside I have my nose to the ground searching for clues. Someday I will find the bird shooter and bring him to justice, or my name is not Pocket Dog Dog Detective.
The game is afoot!