Bird Battles

I used to like birds.  We even owned a few as pets.  There was Heber our cockatiel who learned to imitate the beeping sound of the microwave buttons, and a parakeet named Howard, who never learned anything useful.  Both came with the assumption that a bird in the house would add the perfect touch to domesticity.  And both, along with their cages, were eventually unloaded on gullible, yet highly appreciated people who had similar delusions about a bird in the house.  Ever since, I have been in one battle after another with various members of the fine-feathered species.

First came the woodpeckers.  They had some weird attraction to a particular corner of our house, in close proximity to the bedrooms, and an ungodly hour of the early morning.  After their little jack-hammer-like beaks finally broke through the metal grates of our attic vents, they'd signal the starlings that it was now their turn.

Starlings would then alert their extended family and friends and all would gleefully move into our attic and erect a community of nests, complete with sidewalks, terraces, and indoor plumbing.

At our next house, we became prey to robins.  These birds have no concept of glass in windows, other than if they slam into it enough times, eventually either: 1. It might open, or 2. They will find True Love with their reflection.  The result is a window (usually of one of our hard-to-reach upper floors) covered in bird spit.  Plus they love to build nests on anything horizontal, leaving their poop dripping down our posts, siding, and large portions of our patio.   Not to mention on my freshly-washed car.

Without going into further tales of woe involving my picked-over blueberry bushes, I'll get to the point.  A couple of years ago in the spring (apparently "nesting season"), I noticed that a certain type of black bird seemed to take a lot of interest in my running.  It, and a few of its friends, would dart from tree to tree, following me as I plodded along our neighborhood street.

"Well, that's kind of fun,"  I mused.  Running with birds.  Like Mary Poppins .... or Cinderella and her merry band of critters.  But I failed to notice Alfred Hitchcock, who must have been lurking in the bushes.  Nor did I notice that the background music to this scenario (had this been one of his movies) had turned low and threatening.  The birds started getting aggressive.  They swooped low between the trees.  They swooped towards me.  They swooped AT me.  One actually hit the top of my head and at that point, I was flailing in self-defense.  Fleeing to the other side of the street, I could still see the shadow from over my shoulder, of one of the little kamikazes in full pursuit.

The next year they were back, and each day as I'd cautiously step outside for a run, I would scan the trees.  Seeing that the coast was clear, I'd start off and within minutes, one by one, the black demons would begin to flutter into the trees to set up their radar screens and machine guns.  Pretty soon they were swooping and again, I was their target.

This year, even though I've come to accept Bird Battles simply as part of Spring, a season I love, I'm ready for them.  I'm armed.  I have a camera.  I may even "pack some heat" in the form of a tennis racket.  I will gather solid evidence that I am not losing my mind and the birds REALLY DO HATE ME.  Next, I plan to get an ariel photo proving that they have, with their poop, pelted my roof in the pattern of a large bullseye.

Stay tuned.