Sitting in the Catbird Seat, Really

In the last several years my gardening has gone from feeding my family to supporting the wildlife around my home. It's the most logical progression in my need to nurture now that my kids are scattered and somewhat independent.

While my entire yard is about creating habitat for every animal, from bugs to butterflies to birds and even bigger critters, all except snakes, (Please, snake people, I know, I know, but I'm a shameless NIMBY when it comes to slithering, legless reptiles), I reserve a special area where I stack the deck with plants known to be guaranteed magnets for all manner of beautiful creatures.

This spot is directly in front of the wicker settee on my porch where I often sit and write this blog. My outdoor office faces an arbor-covered sunken patio and courtyard by a pond where I plant the likes of sunflowers and salvias, fruiting shrubs and seed-producing grain-y spikes. This strategy concentrates all the wildlife entertainment for my optimum viewing pleasure. For this I dubbed it the catbird seat.

This expression,"in the catbird seat", was first used by James Thurber in a short story about baseball which I will admit I've never read. It is meant to describe being in an enviable position.

And then a funny thing happened.

Myew! Myew! Maw!

Turns out the tangled vegetation just beyond is the preferred nesting place of the Gray Catbird. More secretive, not as social as the robins, they are a steady presence in my garden announced by their frequent meows and burbling songs. As cousins to the mockingbirds they are capable of imitating other birds, frogs and even mechanical sounds. Astoundingly, their songs can last up to 10 minutes, trilling runs that even outdo Christina Aguilera.

I love their understated slate gray feathers and trim black cap. If they perch long enough you can see their rusty-colored rump. But usually they flit from hedge to vine and back, even scurrying on the ground as they look for insects.

The longest living catbird made it to 17, so I wonder if the little guy that never lets me forget he's there, is the same one every summer. I'm so curious about where he migrates to in the winter, somewhere down along the southern coast. And I wonder if someone else watches and listens for him from their own catbird seat.