Tubby flew into our lives six weeks ago after my sweetheart, Steve, hung up the hummingbird feeder I’d purchased in 1990 but never bothered to put up on the deck.
Within an hour three hummers arrived: Tubby, Susie, and Kevin. Tubby earned his politically incorrect name because of his huge potbelly and because he easily dwarfed the others.
“Good Lord,” I said, when I first spotted him. “How can he fly when he’s so fat? He needs to go to Weight Watchers.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Steve said. “He’s just big-boned.”
Whenever we heard the hummers’ distinctive “tsk-tsk-tsk” we would run to the patio door. Most often it was Tubby dive-bombing the other two. The concept of sharing was lost on our chubby hummer.
“I think he’s headed for a diabetic coma,” I said. After that, Steve no longer let me brew up their nectar. I think he was afraid I’d sweeten it with Splenda.
For several weeks the hummers entertained us as Kevin and Susie worked hard to outsmart Tubby, who loved to sit undisturbed on his perch at the feeder and drink his fill.
Kevin would swoop down toward him, and as Tubby took off for the chase, Susie would sneak in for a quick snack before Tubby returned. It was a lot like watching single-engine Cessnas give chase to a Boeing jet. One day, however, we realized that we hadn’t seen Tubby in awhile.
“I told you he’d get too fat to fly,” I said.
“No, he didn’t,” said Steve. “He’ll be back.” Several more days elapsed without a Tubby sighting, but then one morning Steve called for me to come to the window. “Tubby’s back,” he said. By the time I got there, Tubby had flown away. This happened seven more times over the next three weeks, and each time I was too late to see him.
“Are you sure it’s Tubby?”
“Yes, it’s him, I know it’s him.”
On the next occasion I arrived at the window just in time to catch a glimpse.
“But, that’s not Tubby,” I said when I saw the bird. “That one’s way too small to be Tubby.”
“Yes, it is, too, Tubby,” Steve said. “He’s just lost his baby fat.”
I began to question Steve’s mental health until I stopped to consider how much time and love he had invested in his new-found friend. It made me think about all the ways we shower love upon our animals, and how getting it back a hundred-fold helps us do the harder stuff with humans. Where would we be without these gifts from God?
Oops, gotta run—Steve’s calling.
“Tubby’s back.”
RODENTS RULE!
I read, with wide-eyed disbelief, this headline on Google: “Human embryonic stem cells can improve heart function in rats!”
I don’t know about you, but I’m sick and tired of this new Me-Generation of rodents—it’s all about “me, me, me!”
Those sly little critters, working behind the scenes to snatch our stem cells so they can munch all they want on cheeseburgers without having to pay the price—improve their heart function, my ass! What about us humans?
From now on, I say: “You want Humane Traps, baby? Then, turn over YOUR stem cells—Aunt Rosie would like a little of your speed and agility, your ability to breed without conscience, your sneaky, cheesy ways—how about sharing some of that, huh? Huh?”
Because, until that happens, kiddo, it’s the old guillotine snap for you!
Rosie Sorenson’s work has appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, the Contra Costa Times, and the Berkeley Daily Planet. Her essays have also been broadcast on KQED-FM as part of its Perspectives series. Her essay “Safe Haven” was named Listener Favorite for 2006. She won Honorable Mention in the Erma Bombeck International Writing Contest. Her work also appears in the upcoming 25th Anniversary edition of Mobius, the Poetry Journal. Readers can read more of her work at www.damngoodwriters.com.
