One time we had a big thunderstorm, and it knocked down a finch's nest. One of the kids brought in the survinving baby, and we hand raised it. When it began to fly very well, we decided it was time to set the bird free. "Fly Woodstock, fly!" said my young son as the bird flew from his hands. Woodstock flew in a wide arc, and suddenly, WHAP! Doggone ol' butcherbird got him. Heh heh heh. Did I mention Woodstock was a Eurpoean finch?
They're getting bolder and bolder around here, and are starting to follow my tractor when I mow. I guess shrike's are more good than bad, but their mummified prey hanging on thorns and fences are a minor eyesore.
