For The Birds

When my daughter was a toddler, she was terrorized by a bunch of mallards. It’s not unheard of. Lots of people have been left emotionally scarred by ducks. Just look at Huey, Louie, and Dewey. The triplets might have been angels if not for the bad-tempered influence of their uncles, Scrooge McDuck and Donald. I know the feeling. Once, when I was a kid, I tried to disguise a bad word by doing an imitation of Donald and I still got my mouth washed out with soap.  

Ducks have a dark side, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. As long as they float around placidly in some unprotected public pond, everybody thinks they’re adorable. Moms stand their toddlers on the banks of that waterhole, taking pictures while their babies toss out breadcrumbs until the bag is empty. Giggling at the antics of the splashy little showboaters, people completely forget they’re only seeing one side of these birds. It’s easy to do. As long as you’re rewarding them with attention, they’ll put on one heck of a show. 

But when you’re all out of bread and the kiddos have run out of steam and you head to the car with your worn-out little munchkins, that’s when everything changes. Their SeaWorld imitation is over. Suddenly, an entire herd of Hydes will emerge from that black lagoon, and on tiny, impossibly strong and waterlogged legs, they will chase you down like they were lions on safari.

And that’s why my daughter still hates birds. As a two-year-old she was nearly pecked to pieces by wild, cranky ducks. Thank goodness we stopped laughing long enough to pick her up and rescue her. We’re just lucky she doesn’t hate us.

I think birds have the innate capacity to bring out both admiration and loathing in humans. We’re astonished at the way hundreds of them all fly in V formations as they head south for the winter, lacking both internet access and a roadmap. I wish I knew how they pull that off. I can’t even find my way out of a grocery store parking lot most of the time.

But every morning this summer as I opened the sliders to my back patio, arms laden with a steaming mug of cocoa, a plate of biscuits, my water bottle, a pair of reading glasses, and my cellphone, as I approached the glass table top—where I planned to set all of that down before I sat myself down—I found it covered in bird poop, deposited overnight by a bunch of selfish grackles homesteading in the ash tree overhead. Finally, after a week of this disgusting behavior, as I cleaned off their crap again, I yelled up into the massive branches where they were hiding, “The next time you do this I’m gonna get my gun and there will be Bird Soup for dinner! Tell your little friends!”

It was an empty threat, and they knew it. The truth is, if someone served me soup made from a bunch of poopy blackbirds, I’d throw up.

I don’t hate every bird. There’s a curious roadrunner who’s been visiting my house every day for months. He squeezes past the fence post into my enclosed back patio and stares at me through the sliding glass doors as if I’m the one behind bars. Or maybe he’s checking out his own reflection, hoping the female in the mirror thinks he’s good looking, too. The neighbors call him Rudy, but I named him Pete because everybody knows Pete is a better name for a roadrunner.

I like Pete. I like roadrunners. They’re not your ordinary bird. They eat bugs and overpower rattlesnakes. They’re primitive about it, kind of like Cro-Magnon man. Not having ten fingers with which to aim a rifle, instead they grab their prey with their beaks and smash the nasty vipers against a rock. That makes them a hero in my book, so having a roadrunner around is a great idea. It means there won’t be any rattlesnakes around. Also, I’m pretty sure Pete doesn’t poop. Not on my table, anyway. Pete has manners.

And then there are the comedian birds with lousy radar. They don’t fly south for the winter, I assume, because they have no sense of direction. Also the reason I don’t fly south for the winter. What these guys do instead is fly south into my front windows, nearly every afternoon, head first. My windows aren’t even clean, in part because there are feathered faceplants all over them, so they have no excuse for not seeing that there is a window attached to that house. They’re just not paying attention. While their inner voice is screaming, “Pull up! Pull up! For the love of God and all that is holy, pull up!” they flaunt their feathers instead and push ahead full throttle, convinced there’s no such thing as a glass barrier they can’t fly through.

So far, no birds have been harmed in the making of beaked imprints on my windows. Nor has their self-confidence been impaired. Tomorrow afternoon they’ll slam into them all over again, shake it off, and determine that if they keep on trying that glass ceiling will shatter for them. It won’t, because birds bounce, but they’ll forget that. Also, I now know where the term “bird brain” comes from.

So, what have we learned? Ducks are despicable and dangerous to two-year-olds. Grackles are as useless as roaches and have the manners of Gordon Ramsay. Roadrunners are our friends and I’d like them even better if they ate scorpions more of the time because there don’t seem to be any rattlesnakes around here. And finally, the reason I never wash my windows is not because I’m lazy. It’s because it’s pointless.

Tune in next time when I discuss the pros and cons of our politicians. Talk about bird brains.

With thanks to Nigel for snapping the stellar photo seen above. The original can be viewed with this link:  IMG_6070-4 | Wood Duck Attack ! | Nigel | Flickr