the robin whisperer

Sitting at the kitchen window watching the robins. A gentle smile wreathing my fine preraphaelite features.
Paddy Pup is at my feet doing the loyal hound routine.
He's figured out that where there's robins there's madeira cake, and he's anxious I shouldn't get confused about the pecking order between dogs and garden birds.
Enter the Lil stage left.
"What are you looking at?" sez she.
"My robin."
"Where is he?"
"There he is on the lilac tree."
"What's he doing?"
"He's keeping watch over his girlfriend. She's scratching about on the grass. Doesn't he look proud of her?"
The Mammy allowed a short laugh.
"He's a butty little thing, isn't he?" quoth she. "I don't know what he thinks he's going to do if anything happens to the other one."
"Harrumph," sez me with quiet dignity.
"He's the funniest looking robin I've ever seen," continued the Mammy. "He's like a little roundy ball of brown. There's not much red on him, is there?"
"Mother you are being very pass remarkable about my robin."
"Umm," sez she. "At least this one actually is a robin. The last one you had was a chaffinch."
I stood up and headed for more peaceful climes in the west wing of the chateau.
As the kitchen door closed behind me, I heard the Mammy exclaiming aloud in tones reminiscent of the great television naturalist David Bellamy: "Hey. She mightn't be his girlfriend. Maybe she's his partner."
I did not deign to answer.