Why Chickadees Hate Me
Despite coming from a long line of woodland assassins, I've never considered myself a bird murderer until this week.
Growing up, I'd often hear my Grandmother muttering "those starlings!" as she grabbed the BB gun. She would quietly slide the window above the kitchen sink open and take aim. She also had strong feelings about chipmunks and red squirrels, but it was the large birds who bullied songbirds around her feeders that she despised the most.
I've always had neutral feelings about birds. Call it a mutual respect. I've never understood how people can sit and watch them for hours on end, and the worst four hours of my undergraduate degree were on field trip during which we recorded the behaviours of redwing blackbirds for Ecology 301. Yet, perhaps because I watched Alfred Hitchcock's Birds too young, I've always thought birds were smart and capable of dangerous things, if only they'd stop focussing so much energy on seeds. Mutual respect.
This spring we had a small ornamental tree that died and started to rot in our front yard. It took us until July to get around to cutting it down. As it turned out, Mr. and Mrs. Chad Chickadee were nesting in an rotted-out knot hole. Post-chopping, six tiny, perfect eggs littered the ground. Chad Chickadee started fluttering around, trying to figure where his family had gone. His wife, who we will henceforth call Chelsea, landed on the broken-branch remnants of their old home. I felt terrible for them.
Did it make me a bird-murderer? I didn't think so. I hadn't known they were there, and really, Chad and Chelsea Chickadee still had plenty of time to make more babies. Right?
Well, at least that's what I told myself.
After a few weeks, the Chickadees forgave me. Last Wednesday when I was bring in the laundry, Chelsea even came and sat on the laundry line beside me. We were having a genuine Snow White moment. Except Chelsea didn't tell me we were bonding mother-to-mother. She was so quiet, and I was so focussed on bringing in the laundry, that I didn't even notice she was there.
I yanked the line to draw the laundry closer to me, and that's when I felt the thump. I looked over, just as Chelsea fell to the ground, wings spread. She looked up -- I swear -- and then lowered her tiny, downey head onto the ground with her last breath.
So now its official: I am an avicidal maniac.
If you listen closely, you can hear the little birdy television sets: 37-year-old woman wanted in connection of the murder of a mother and her six defenceless children. Approximately 6-feet tall, light complexion. If seen do not engage in birdsong and call Starling flock immediately.
Sigh. Poor Chad Chickadee.
Growing up, I'd often hear my Grandmother muttering "those starlings!" as she grabbed the BB gun. She would quietly slide the window above the kitchen sink open and take aim. She also had strong feelings about chipmunks and red squirrels, but it was the large birds who bullied songbirds around her feeders that she despised the most.
I've always had neutral feelings about birds. Call it a mutual respect. I've never understood how people can sit and watch them for hours on end, and the worst four hours of my undergraduate degree were on field trip during which we recorded the behaviours of redwing blackbirds for Ecology 301. Yet, perhaps because I watched Alfred Hitchcock's Birds too young, I've always thought birds were smart and capable of dangerous things, if only they'd stop focussing so much energy on seeds. Mutual respect.
This spring we had a small ornamental tree that died and started to rot in our front yard. It took us until July to get around to cutting it down. As it turned out, Mr. and Mrs. Chad Chickadee were nesting in an rotted-out knot hole. Post-chopping, six tiny, perfect eggs littered the ground. Chad Chickadee started fluttering around, trying to figure where his family had gone. His wife, who we will henceforth call Chelsea, landed on the broken-branch remnants of their old home. I felt terrible for them.
Did it make me a bird-murderer? I didn't think so. I hadn't known they were there, and really, Chad and Chelsea Chickadee still had plenty of time to make more babies. Right?
Well, at least that's what I told myself.
After a few weeks, the Chickadees forgave me. Last Wednesday when I was bring in the laundry, Chelsea even came and sat on the laundry line beside me. We were having a genuine Snow White moment. Except Chelsea didn't tell me we were bonding mother-to-mother. She was so quiet, and I was so focussed on bringing in the laundry, that I didn't even notice she was there.
I yanked the line to draw the laundry closer to me, and that's when I felt the thump. I looked over, just as Chelsea fell to the ground, wings spread. She looked up -- I swear -- and then lowered her tiny, downey head onto the ground with her last breath.
So now its official: I am an avicidal maniac.
If you listen closely, you can hear the little birdy television sets: 37-year-old woman wanted in connection of the murder of a mother and her six defenceless children. Approximately 6-feet tall, light complexion. If seen do not engage in birdsong and call Starling flock immediately.
Sigh. Poor Chad Chickadee.
Comments
Post a Comment