The Hummingbirds of the Hilltop

A few of the six feeders hanging on my front porch. Each one holds one quart of fluid.  I long ago ceased putting color into the sugar-water. It did no good, went straight through the birds, and ended up on the cement on the porch.

Several years ago, my wife Sharon and I began feeding the hummingbird population residing around our hilltop.  At first it was only a few birds who entertained us with their feeding.  That was soon to change, as the number of hungry hummers kept increasing.

Over the years we've expanded to having six of these one-quart feeders hanging on the front porch.  When they birds come shortly after dawn, and again just before dusk, the air around the feeders is absolutely filled with the tiny birds.

Each feeder has six small holes through which the birds stick their beaks, and then run their tongues into the liquid. At maximum feeding time it is usual to see twelve birds on the bottom of each feeder, two at each hole.  They take turns sipping and gathering their nourishment.  Surrounding every feeder is a cloud of additional birds trying to find a spot to sit down and eat.

With six feeders, each with twelve birds eating, there are at least 72 birds eating there.  But when you add in another five or six birds hovering nearby, the number of birds feeding on our porch quickly approaches 100.  Of course, getting a firm count is impossible because they are constantly on the move, so the best I can do is an estimation.

Not a huge bunch of birds, but quite a few.  There appear to be roughly six or seven hummers at each feeder and there are a total of six feeders.

The sound of that many birds, wings flapping at a rapid rate, makes a humming, buzzing sound that is quite spectacular. I've actually had birds fly into my face, coming close enough to feel the air move, when I take down feeders at maximum feeding times.  I've never had one bump me, but have felt the air from their wings many times.

We buy granulated sugar in 25 pound bags, for we store hummer juice in six one-gallon plastic jugs,  If Sharon helps me I can fill all six hanging feeders in 10 minutes, and on the days I have to resupply the plastic jugs, it takes at least another 20 minutes.

But, all the time, effort, and even the money, are worth it when we can watch the amazing birds out the kitchen and family room windows.

My Buddy Beau

Beau on my lap several years ago.

We've all ben through it, for anybody who takes a pet into their family must face the end of their life. We love our four-footed friends, and they give us so much pleasure and comfort, so losing them is always difficult.

As a young child, probably in the eight or nine-year-old range, I got acquainted with my first boxer.  We were in Cayucos vacationing, and I fell in love with the personality and looks of the breed.

Life happened, so girlfriend, military, marriage, children, and career all came before getting a boxer.  Then one fine day our middle son came to the house to show off his new dog, Mugs, a six-month-old male boxer.  He was spindly, a tan and white dog, and not particularly good looking.  In fact, he was just this side of ugly.

As is so often the case with our offspring, their plans change. He found he couldn't keep his dog and move to the city.  He left Mugs with some friends, and moved on with his life.

Within a couple of weeks, the family taking care of Mugs called me. "We have your son's dog, but we really aren't set up for such a big one. Would you like to take him to your ranch?"

When they brought Mugs out of their back yard, I nearly fell out of the pickup.  He'd grown up.  And had he ever grown up.  He was massive in the chest, with a huge head. He was absolutely beautiful. He climbed onto the passenger seat with no hesitation and seemed content to go with me.

The years sped by, and one afternoon when Mugs was about ten years old, I came home to find he had evidently had a heart attack.  After my tears, I buried him here on the ranch, where we'd enjoyed several good years together.

A few months later, we heard about Boxer Rescue in the Sunland area and Max came to live on our hilltop.  Again, several years passed as he approached the ten-year age,  This time, it was much sadder and more difficult, for we had to take Max to our vet to help us let go of him with love and kindness.

A few months after Max joined Mugs in the pasture, Sharon heard of registered boxers in Porterville, and we went to see them. A beautiful male came home with us, soon to become known as Beau.

Beau turned ten in September last year, so we recognized the inevitability.  During recent weeks his coat lost much of its luster, and his tired body lost a little of the condition that made him so handsome.

Thursday morning, I had been up since 4:00 AM, after having been to my Writers Group the night before. I was sitting in my big chair with my computer on my lap, editing my book.  Sharon came out from the bedroom, "Beau had a major seizure."

With heavy heart we watched him during the morning and when he had a second seizure in less than three hours, we knew it was time to let him go.  The final decision was not made without careful consideration, but we both agreed it was unfair to make him suffer like that.  Simply put, it was time.

Our vet, who grew up with our boys, has a practice in Porterville.  He came out to the pickup to kindly and gently attend to our pet.  We took Beau home and lovingly put him out in the meadow with Mugs, and Max.

Beau added a great deal of pleasure to our hilltop. He was my buddy, and he loved Sharon. She usually fed our dogs, and when it got near feeding time, he would come stand in front of her, roll his head side to side, and seemingly "talk" to her.  It was a funny sound, definitely not a bark, but a kind of yowl.  If she didn't move right away to start the feeding process, he'd reach out with his foot and paw her leg, talking all the time.

He enjoyed running behind me when I was out and about on the quad, or walking with me when I went to the barn to feed or down in the pasture to irrigate. He loved chasing the squirrels living on our hilltop, and once in a while even caught one.

This post is not meant to bum you out, or make you sad.  This is something we know, and must accept, when we bring pets into our lives.  There must be a finite end to the period of having them enrich our lives and we are obliged to be ready and willing to let them go with love and caring. As the stewards of our pets lives, we owe it to them to be there, tearful if necessary, letting them know we love them when the end must come.

Beau was a stubborn, Type A, male creature.  But then, so am I.  Maybe that's why we got along so well.

Beau - 2007-2018

This picture was taken on a beautiful spring morning when Beau was no more then two or three.  This is the way I want to remember him - running free, feeling  no pain, and standing among the flowers.