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Mainly because of these little guys. This is Mr Blue Wren. He is currently engaged in all-out warfare with his reflection in the windows. This occurs every Spring. His shrill little war cry rings throughout the garden and the tap, tap, tap, as he pecks at the windows in a fury is frequent. Unfortunately for him, Mrs Jenny Wren rather fancies his reflection, and keeps trying to get closer to it, enraging him further. A Greek tragedy for wren-kind?

Note the wren poop everywhere. Cute little bundles of attitude they may be, but they poop every bloody five seconds. The window sills are covered in wren poop. The door handles on the French doors are covered in wren poop. The brand new outdoor chairs are covered in wren poop.

Wrens like to live close to the ground, in bushes or shrubbery. They love the garden, with it’s thickets of roses to hide in. They build their nests down low to the ground, making them very vulnerable to cats (I have seen them nesting in the echiums one year; the baby fuzz-ball wrens kept their little mum and dad hopping back and forth with constant feeding). That’s why I don’t have a cat. And indoor cats are not an option in a house with eight doors that open to the garden.

I grew up with both cats and dogs and I love having them around. Not having a cat does feel like something is missing. But for the sake of Mr and Mrs Poopy Wren and their tiny fuzz-ball babies, I resist.

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