The Mourning Doves And Me

Well, as you can tell, I have not been on this blog in quite some time, having spent most of my blogging time over at Call-Outs And Shout-Outs.  But my mental health has been suffering lately -- likely a combination of the death of my mother in 2023, the fact that I am rattling around in a too-big house and trying to take care of it by myself, the stress associated with this puerile, chaotic, exhausting Presidental Administration.  Not to mention the stress surrounding my vastly understaffed workplace.  

So I have been trying to find some relief from the stress, and voilá!  I found it in nature.  So in this vein, let me share a little tale with my fellow nature lovers out there.  Maybe it will help you as it has helped me.

Back in the 90's, I began to be aware of bird noises around the vicinity of my house.  "We have owls!" I exclaimed to my mum, but no, she explained to me, those are Mourning Doves and they're not hooting, they're cooing, that's their mating call.  

Well, it was such a cute mating call, and also finding out that Mourning Doves mate for life, I became very enamored with them, and frequently waited with great anticipation for their return in spring, and rejoiced in their coos.  

About 20 years ago or so, I went out my front door one day to get the mail and saw a dead Mourning Dove on my porch.  I went in my house and got some nitrile gloves (my mother was a nurse and always had a supply), a small box and a shovel and picked the bird up, preparing to take her to my side yard and bury her under our Norway Maple.  All of a sudden a commotion arose above me.  Her mate was on our front gutter giving me hell for touching her.

"Ahhh," I said to him, "I sure am sorry to see you lost your wife.  But I'm not taking her away to harm her.  I'm gonna bury her under that tree.  You can watch me if you want.  Tell you what: I'll leave her here till I dig the hole, and you can say goodbye.  You understand, don't you?  I don't want some other critter coming and harming your wife's body.  You deserve to remember her like she was when she was healthy."  (Yes, your Crusading Blogger does indeed speak to birds this way.  My grandma taught me when I was little that animals may or may not understand words, but they definitely understand love!)  And indeed, the male quieted and just proceeded to watch me intently.

So I went over to the side yard and dug the hole.  The male continued watching me, cocking his head from time to time.  When I finished, I came over and said to him, "OK, little friend, I'm sorry, but it's time."  I wrapped the gal dove in a small clean cloth and put her in the box.  

"See," I said to the male, "I'm gonna bury her just like I said, right under that tree in the hole.  You can come and sit in the tree and be with your wife anytime you want.  OK?"  And with that I went over, put the box in the hole and spread the dirt.  Sure enough, the male flew over as I did so, and spent a half hour or so in that tree before flying away.  We have many Mourning Doves around here, and from time to time till the fall, I saw them in that tree.  I liked to think that maybe one of them was him, and maybe he even told his fellow Mourning Doves about his wife's resting place and that crazy woman from the house that the tree belonged to, who talked to him as she buried his wife. 

Funny, though, from the following spring on, the Mourning Doves began perching on my deck and even on my bedroom windowsill and I would talk to them, much to the chagrin of my cats.  And they seemed to be deliberately trying to make me aware of their presence, flying up and cooing in windowsills of rooms I was in -- my bedroom, the kitchen.  Though they never built their nests there.

So you could definitely say there seemed to be a relationship between me and the Mourning Doves.

Which is why I wasn't too surprised when I saw them beginning their mating ritual on my deck a little more than a month ago: 

Nor was I surprised several days later to see the doves appropriating a nest already built on my deck:

I got so used to seeing the couple sitting atop their nest, I gave them names, Mort and Marley.  I quickly got them inured to sharing the deck with me by coming and going slowly and quietly and speaking to them softly as I did so.  It took them a few days, but they even got acclimated to me slowly putting my deck umbrella up and down when I would sit out for a meal or such.  And I was delighted to have them there.  They cheered me out some of the worst doldrums I have experienced in my life.

June in Da Burgh can be a rough month, though.  

On the 18th, we had one of those days.  Not one storm exactly, just a whole windy, gusty day.

I had gotten in the habit of going out to the deck and greeting Mort or Marley when they were nest-sitting, or just looking and smiling at them, talking softly and lovingly.  They were really making my spring and summer.  

So I passed by the deck in the late afternoon and looked out to smile up at Marley.  To my horror, Marley was up on the drainpipe, but the nest was not there.  Marley looked sadly down at the deck floor, and this was the sight I saw when my eyes followed hers:

Horrified, I told her how sorry I was, that I loved her, and quickly went in to get supplies to clean up the deck.  I talked softly and reassuringly to Marley, as I was aware that and cleaning up ASAP would help her move on more quickly, maybe she and Mort would even be able to build/find another nest and try again.  Marley flew away to the neighbor's fence as I cleaned, but flew back after I was done.  I talked to her for several minutes and then she flew away.

I was stunned right after sunset as I was sitting in my room to hear the familiar cooing very close.  I looked up and Mort was perched on my windowsill.  I spoke quietly to him for a moment, then he flew away.  And to my surprise he was back the next two mornings at 7:30 AM, cooing for a few minutes, then gone.

But a week and a half later, they paid me another visit:

I think Mort and Marley are gonna be OK, how 'bout you?