In
one particular robin flock there was a female who was truly loyal and faithful
to the mate she had picked years before. It was a sort of scandal to be so
male-bonded in a group that was utterly liberal and would never show the
slightest disapproval of normal social strayers from the nest. Not that she
showed off in any manner but was, simply, devoted and content. And it had been
the same for him in a prior mating, where his partner never once went off,
until she died.
What
did he have that kept his females so devoted? Don’t say sex because robins
don’t delude themselves with unique details of capacity, any startling
disparities in coital competence. They know about the general parity of masculine
performance. One male is as strong or as brave as another, no special fame
inherent. Was it exceptional good-looks? No. He had no extraordinary orange in
his broad expanse of chest, no luminous crimson more luminous than the next.
No, something else was involved in this robin’s hold on his steadfast,
immovable mates.
No
one in that flock ever learned his secret except his breast-bespeckled son when
the fledgling took his turn to fly to other skies and be gone.
