Elmer (the poster basset for Mom, Interrupted) has always eaten outside. We liked that arrangement, because as a puppy, he developed the habit of sticking his feet in his dish and spreading food everywhere, which is really really cute but not so great to clean up after.

He also had developed the habit of shoving his metal dish around on the floor, which had the effect of a prisoner on Cell Block 3 banging his cup against the bars of his cell and screaming, “SCREW!”

So Elmer has always eaten outside. Until Sunday.

The only downside for Elmer eating outside is that the birds apparently consider kibble to be fine gourmet dining. The routine had become: throw a cup of kibble in his dish. Elmer, never the chow hound (unless it’s something YOU’RE eating and he knows he’s not getting any of that), figures he’ll get to that in a little bit.

In the meantime, the cast of an Alfred Hitchcock movie assembles on the wall of our yard. Birds of all kind, but mostly big black raven-y looking beasts about the size of my first car. When Elmer is safely away from the dish, one brave one would hop down, select a nugget, and then flutter back up.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Every so often, of course, Elmer will take one of ’em down and I’ll find him eviscerating his victim on the patio. I have ceased to care about the birds, because their eating habits may be tasty but have a nasty effect on their gastrointestinal systems. Not that I care about their upper GIs mind you; it’s their LOWER GIs that give me a headache, as the results of their little Elmer’s-dish-is-like-going-to-Furr’s experience gets dumped (and oh that’s ever so the right word) all over everything in our yard.

And sometimes on my car, all the way in the front of the house. You’d think they’d take better care of their benefactor. Ungrateful little (and I use this word literally) shits.

So Elmer’s eating in the house now, and banging his dish around and sometimes pulling the oh-so-cute puppy trick of falling asleep with his head in the bowl. The birds are obviously confused. They keep collecting in the yard, but the waitress never shows. They consult with each other, obviously speculating. I bet they have their best minds working on the sudden lack of gift food, and they’re contemplating turning back to The Old Ways of finding worms and bugs and stuff.

It occurred to me this morning that there may be an entire bird civilization built on Elmer’s dog chow that now may crumble into the dust, and the only solid artifacts that will survive will be the bird diarrhea all over my lawn furniture.

Good riddance.