Robins don’t take hints.

Nature and I just don’t get along.  Oh sure, I love hiking and soaking up the great outdoors, but when it comes to neighborhood critters my diplomacy skills are somewhat lacking.  And I mean that in a “George W. Bush’s foreign policy is ’somewhat lacking’” kind of way.

My battles with God’s creatures are legendary on my block.

It began years ago when a family of squirrels decided to invade my home and make a nest in my fireplace.  Well, it’s a fireplace in name only.  It was sealed off by the previous owners of our home, presumably because it was as poorly maintained as the rest of the house and therefore using it would result in our home’s total destruction.

I spent the better part of a spring and summer trying to evict those squirrels from their fireside flat.  My attempts made Carl’s gopher-hunts in Caddyshack look professional by comparison.  For a period of several months it was not unusual to see me on my roof dumping various chemicals into the chimney in hopes of driving the furry bastards out, and then attempting to affix (and later repair) a seal to keep them out.

All my efforts were in vain, of course, as the squirrels continually found a way to circumvent my handiwork.  It wasn’t until someone made a chimney cover that weighs nearly as much as a VW Beetle and gave it to me that I finally won the battle.

I don’t think the cover itself prevents the squirrels from gaining access.  I think it just makes the chimney so ugly that they no longer want to live in it.  The other squirrels in the neighborhood were probably making fun of them.  But hey, whatever works.

After the squirrel chronicles I enjoyed a few years of peace.  I had the occasional minor skirmish, mainly involving deer that completely devoured my poor attempts at a garden, but nothing serious.

But this spring the peace was shattered.  My new foe is a robin — a robin who insists on building a nest under my carport on top of my hanging ladder.

That spot has been a favorite with neighborhood fowl over the years, and up until now I’ve tolerated it.  It has even been somewhat fun watching the eggs appear and then hatch, then seeing the baby birds grow up and fly away.

The problem was that during that time I was unable to use my ladder.  And it dawned on me that pretty much the whole reason for having a ladder is to be able to use it now and then.  And the  nesting months in spring are usually the times I need it most for jobs such as cleaning out gutters, spraying wasp nests, and generally attaining heights from which a fall could kill me.

So this year I decided to play the evil landlord.  As the nests began to appear I knocked them down, not allowing the birds to settle in and get cozy.

The first victim was a turtle dove.  After I demolished a couple of her nests she got the hint and moved on.

Next came the robin, who makes Bush’s “Stay the course” Iraq philosophy look wishy-washy.  No amount of nest destruction will deter her.  She builds them up, I knock them down.  And she returns.

My yard stays littered with the half-completed nests I’ve knocked from the ladder (mainly because I’m too lazy to clean them up).

Yet she keeps coming back for more.

That’s the nest that I tore down today, and I guarantee there will be another one in its place tomorrow.

Don’t get me wrong — there is no joy in this for me.  I hate destroying a critter’s home, but until the bird volunteers to clean all of my gutters I’m going to need access to that ladder.

I’ve tried hanging things from the carport ceiling to scare the birds away.  The pie plate was noisy but they got used to it after a short time.  The dead chicken was the most effective but the smell generated complaints from the neighbors.

So our battle of wills continues.

I bet the squirrels are watching.  And laughing.