There’s a bird feeder just
outside the dining room window. Mrs. Taylor (formerly Lori Frankforter) put it
up there at the start of summer. Since then, it’s proved immensely popular with
the local avian population. If that feeder were a nightclub and birds could
afford a cover charge, I’d be a rich man by now.
The feeder is actually four
feeders in one, set up on a shepherd’s hook, with each feeder appealing to a
different subset of birds. The sunflower seeds seem to attract the widest
variety; the smaller seeds draw only a couple different types. The hummingbird
feeder and live flowers are intended to bring in, not surprisingly,
hummingbirds.
All summer long the birds fly in
and the birds fly out, an unending rivulet of beaks and feathers that drive our
five cats out of their fuzzy, carnivorous little gourds. And now, as summer
wanes, the traffic has only increased; it’s a rare moment that doesn’t see at
least five birds out there jockeying for position.
The hummingbirds are long gone,
wimpy deserters that they are. Off to warmer climes where they can continue
their endless cycle of being beautiful and yet somehow, kinda creepy. (They’re
too much like overgrown bumblebees.)
Because I have no life to speak
of, I’ve spent a lot of time this summer sitting on the patio watching those
birds and wondering if it’s too early in the day for a Bloody Mary. In that
time, I’ve noticed one thing about birds. One important thing.
They’re jerks.
I know, I know, they look
beautiful. When folks picture an idyllic, sylvan scene, it’s always populated
with winged creatures fluttering between autumn leaves or along misty,
rain-swept beaches.
But if you watch them, I mean really pay attention and observe their habits, it doesn’t take
long before you realize birds are the high-school-mean-girl clique of the
animal world.
As I mentioned earlier, our
backyard feeder is capable of servicing five or six birds at a time, maybe
more. Mrs. T (fLF) refills the seed as fast as it’s depleted, so the feeder is
never even close to empty. It is, for birds, a bottomless pit of avian treats,
an endless, self-refilling (to their way of thinking) Holy Grail of birdy
goodness.
One might think the birds would
want to share this good fortune with others of their kind. One would be wrong.
See, every bird, large or small,
who visits that feeder immediately tries to take full possession of its rich bounty.
There is no sharing in the bird world, no concept of spreading the wealth to
the less fortunate. There are no socialist birds.
To the casual observer, that bird
feeder is a social hub for the avian community, a place where they meet, feed
and discuss the bird-related issues of the day. Closer observation, however,
tells a different story.
That feeder is a war zone.
With the notable exception of
crows, most bird calls are pleasant to the human ear. But I’ve been listening
to them all summer (sometimes with the translation abilities afforded me by my
second Bloody Mary) and I can tell you, what those birds are saying ain’t good.
CHICKADEE: At last! At last! The feeder is mine! I claim this feeder in the name
of … ME! Everybody else get off’n my property!
BARN SWALLOW (swooping in): Your mother! This is MY feeder! MINE, I tell
ya!
HUMMINGBIRD (zipping in at Mach 7
and scaring all the other birds away): Ha!
Come back when you can imitate a giant bumblebee, suckers! Until then, this is
MY feeder!
Between all this chasing each
other back and forth, all this trash talk and dive bombing raids, almost no
seed gets eaten. If these feathered idiots would cooperate and learn to
coexist, there would be plenty for all and birdkind as a whole would be better
off for it.
But nope. They’re all too busy
trying to stake a claim on their little patch of feeder (which isn’t really their feeder at all; it’s MY feeder).
They’re too busy trying to make sure nobody else gets any. And so, they all
wind up going just a little bit hungry. Makes you wonder how the whole species
has managed to survive, doesn’t it?
So. Is there a moral here? Some
cautionary memorandum we can take away from these observations? Do I look like
Aesop to you? Or maybe Thomas Aquinas?
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| See? We're twins! |
No, I do not. (Well, maybe a
little like Aquinas; the resemblance is quite striking, actually.) But I’m not
him. And if there’s a moral implied in this column, it’s coincidental.
Besides, surely people are a
helluva lot smarter than a bunch of moronic birds, right? Now, if you’ll excuse
me, the neighbor kids are playing on my lawn again.
Gotta go chase ‘em off.
(616) 730-1414
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