In nature, symbiotic relationships fall into three categories: mutualism (where both species benefit), commensalism (where one benefits and the other is unaffected), and parasitism (where one gains and the other loses). Think the plover in the crocodile’s mouth for the first, the remora fish and the shark for the second, and the deer and the tick for the third.
We have a very handsome pheasant called Boris knocking around the place. I appreciate that this means that we now have two Boris’ on the payroll, but bear with me: they were named for very different reasons.
Boris (the cock pheasant) is many things, but stupid is not one of them. First, he understands, for example, the times of day that the dogs tend to be out in the garden and plans his visits accordingly. Secondly, he has developed a hierarchy of hiding places in the garden, where proximity to the bird table is traded for the severity of the threat. Finally, he is instinctively aware of when to shout from the rooftops, and when to look consciously magnificent. He hates wood pigeons, but that doesn’t rally have any place in what follows.
For Boris has recently discovered that food tastes so much better if you let someone else do the preliminary work. He loves peanuts but, at three pounds, is far too heavy and unwieldy to hang off the peanut feeder, four foot above the ground. His solution is genius.
We have a resident jackdaw called, obviously, Dominic. Dominic, at half a pound and with a suite of aeronautic skills, is perfectly capable of hanging off the peanut feeder. Having scared all the smaller birds away, he is then free to gorge himself on nuts until he is done, at which point he walks it off on the grass, and then flies up to the chimney and rests. Within this routine, Boris has clocked that Dominic is an extremely messy feeder, and so he now coincides his visits not only with the dogs’ absence, but with Dominic’s attendance. So far, so commensal.
The problem that has emerged, and was always going to, is that a three-pound bird needs about six times as much food as a half pounder, and that Boris has hardly finished the starter by the time Dominic is on the metaphorical After Eights and coffee.
So Boris has now taken to chasing Dominic around the lawn and, unbelievably, then scaring him backto the bird table which, if you take into account government healthy eating guidelines, turns the relationship to a parasitic one. I cannot think of one good reason in nature why the jackdaw flies backto the table, rather than up to the roof, where Boris’ plumpness makes it more than difficult to join him.
There is only one problem: in the last couple of days the jackdaw has abandoned our bird table and presumably found another one further down the village, but without the hazard of parasitism.
This morning, Boris is nowhere to be seen, and we are on tenterhooks to see what happens next.
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