two turtledoves, and a --

I am living the Twelve Days of Christmas.

Not the theological count between Christmas and the appearance of the magi on Epiphany, but the song. In the religious tradition of my youth, such concepts as advent, lent, and Epiphany existed in some far-off intellectual realm inhabited by such exotic beings as Episcopalians, Catholics, and Methodists. But they were foreign to me.

Not so with the Christmas carol. I can recall singing "The Twelve Days of Christmas" at a school assembly when I was in the first grade -- along with a lot of messiah-centric tunes. It is that song, or part of it, that I am now living in the house with no name.

As far as I know, I have not been visited by ten lords a leaping, even though I often see that number of northern tourists a drinking. And the six geese a laying have  been reduced to four in my neighbors yard. I suspect it was a matter of economic redundancy.

The house with no name is now playing host to an avian nursery. I told you about the untimely death of the fledgling ground dove two days ago in fowl deeds. Having lost one child, mother ground dove is back on her nest in the cup-of-gold vine. And there is another rock dove a sitting on a nest in the tangle of a second vine.

I had no idea that doves were this prolific. I suppose they have to be. They occupy a rung on the food chain ladder that is just above krill. It is probably good for all of us that raccoons, cats, hawks, and young boys find them such easy targets. Otherwise, we would be neck-deep in them -- along with rabbits.

Two years ago, a pair of Eurasian collared doves set up housekeeping in one of my Queen Anne palms. It was the usual breeding cycle. Nest. Eggs. Two nestlings. Two fledglings. Lots of bird poop. And then everyone was gone.

But not for long. Within a month, the same pair (or another) set up their little hot-sheet motel again. Two more teenage doves eventually left home.

I do not know how many doves have popped out of that nest and into the sky. Maybe five or six broods. But the breeding pair is back again.

Months ago I took down the nest because the frequent bird eliminations were dissolving the paint on my staircase. That did not dissuade them. Eurasian collared doves are survivors. They even tried driving out the ground doves that were so bold with their territory.

This time they dispensed with a nest and just used the crotch where a palm frond joins the trunk. Whenever I would walk by on the upper terrace, I could see their dovey sneer as if to say: "You're not my dad."

Homelessness has not minimized the doves' fecundity. Two fledglings have now advanced into their teen years. They spend almost all of the day on the frond that was part of their un-home, occasionally making brief flights, but always returning to see what is in the refrigerator.

I am easily amused. But they provide something else. A bit of Christmas spirit.

After all, who can claim that he actually has two turtledoves? And I will bet there is a partridge around here somewhere.

Perhaps mother rock dove would be willing to cross-dress for the role.