Or amusing.

Last week, a pair inspected the purple martin house. The male was partial to the second-floor accommodations facing the lake. The female settled on the first floor, lower left compartment overlooking our house.

I’ve named them Fred and Wilma (from the Flintstone cartoon of yesteryear).

Nothing Fred could do, not singing, not calling, not hopping back and forth, would convince Wilma to come see what he’d found.

Finally, he deigned to look inside the compartment she preferred.

They had a short, vociferous argument, and he climbed inside.

Wilma promptly sat in front of the exit, trapping him.

She kept him there for thirty minutes, occasionally arguing with him, but never moving aside.

Finally, she flew off.

Poor Fred. I actually thought I must have missed him escaping, but finally he peeked from the hole, barely letting his beak protrude past the doorway.

After five minutes of cautious peeking, culminating in two half exits to ensure Wilma wasn’t seated above and prepared to stuff him back inside, he flew away.

I haven’t seen those two since. I think Wilma traumatized him.

A flock of purple martins swung by a few days ago and put on quite a show of checking out the apartments. One male perched on the railing that runs the length of the house and sang his little heart out. Gurgles (like bubbles underwater), clicks, and calls.

It was lovely.

But they each flew off, one by one, leaving that one singing male.

Somewhat embarrassed, he took flight.

I’ve not seen them since.

Sigh. Fickle.