I recently read a 2021 study that stated there are about six birds for every human being on the planet and approximately 50 billion birds worldwide. Which leads me to wonder, where do birds go when they die? With millions of birds dying every day, where are all the bodies?  Why don’t we see them dropping from the sky, littering the ground? I brought this question up at dinner the other night with Ron.  “Birds have a lot of predators,” he said.  “They probably get eaten.”  By what?  Cats?  How many cats would it take to consume millions of birds?  It boggles the mind. Perhaps birds travel to oceans or lakes to die, or burrow deep into trees and bushes when they know the end is near, their little carcasses hidden from view.  Just a guess. Having no satisfactory answer, it’s something I’ll ponder for a while.

In the meantime, I love sitting on my porch in the early morning, listening to birds chatter and welcome the day. I watch them dip into the birdbath, throwing off drops of water that sparkle in the morning sun. I watch hummingbirds flit from bush to bush, occasionally hovering in front of me and darting away when I whisper, “Good morning.”  There is a mockingbird that visits a couple of times a week. He perches on my fence and shows off his range while I sip my coffee and enjoy the show. Birds are ethereal creatures with a gift for bringing tranquility to our lives.  Yet, on occasion they can be disruptive, bringing hilarity, chaos, or both.

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Early one morning a few weeks ago, I was standing at the coffee pot waiting for my dark roast to brew.  I heard my dogs barking frantically in the front yard and Ron shouting, “Git!  Damn it!  Git!”  I grabbed my coffee and rushed to the front door, which was wide open.  Ron was standing in the front yard waving his arms and urging our two dogs toward the house.  A large crow swooped toward Ron’s head, cawing and flapping.  Another crow was headed toward our smaller dog, Scout.  “What in the world is happening?”  I shouted, distressed.   I ran out to pick up Scout and was dive bombed by the second crow.  When the four of us, Ron, me and the two dogs, were safely under the shelter of our porch, I looked up to see a dozen crows perched on wire cables directly in front of our house.  They were watching us, waiting for us to make one wrong move.  “This is crazy!” I said.  Ron took the dogs into the house, mumbling something about buying a BB gun.

I stayed on the porch in my pajamas, drinking my coffee, held hostage by the dozen or more crows.  I surveyed the yard to see what, if anything, had put the crows in warrior mode.  Nothing I could see.  After a few minutes, most of the crows had flown away but two of them stayed to roost on our front gate.  I walked down the porch steps and into the yard as hesitantly as if I were wading into icy water.  Instantly, Heckle and Jeckle left the gate and were on me.  They did not make contact but took turns swooping close enough for me to feel the flutter of air and flap of their wings.  As each took a pass, they let out a very loud, threatening squawk as if to say, “We warned you, lady.”  By now Ron was watching from the porch, having secured the dogs safely inside.

 “What are you doing?” He asked me as I retreated up the steps.

“Not sure,” I said. “But they don’t appear to be going away.” I pulled a cushion off a chair on the porch and covered my head with it.  There had to be a reason the crows were protecting this yard and I was going to crack the case.  I darted around the yard and to the side of the house, cushion on my head, eyes peeled for the cause of the commotion.  After dodging a few attacks, I spied a small crow on the ground, turning his head and blinking at me as I approached.  “What’s up buddy?”  I asked.  He stood on his scrawny bird legs as if to run from me, then sat back down.  He spread his wings and flapped a couple of times but did not lift off.  Three crows landed on the ground near me.

I did not see any visible injuries on the grounded bird, so I guessed that maybe he was a young crow that got spooked, or tired, or intimidated by the larger crows and decided to chill for a while.  The crows on the wire were back, cawing threats, and the two that had been attacking continued to half-heartedly swoop at me.  No fun with the cushion on her head. 

I reported back to Ron, who sat on the porch looking up BB guns on Amazon.  “I think we ignore it for now,” I said, handing Ron the chair cushion.  “I don’t think he’s hurt, and he’s safe enough with that crew out there protecting him.”

We put the dogs in the back yard and went on with our day.  A couple of hours later I went to check on the little crow and it was gone.  A few small birds roosted on the telephone wires, no crows in sight.  I sat on the porch and watched hummingbirds poke at a Salvia bush.  Ron never ordered the BB gun. I would have hidden it anyway.

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When I was 14, I spent the summer working in a concession building at the end of the Imperial Beach pier. Because of my age, my parents had to sign a permission slip allowing me to work, and they were delighted to do so. Until then, I earned my spending money by washing cars, babysitting, and ironing clothes for people in the neighborhood.

The concession was a wooden structure where beach-goers or people fishing off the pier could buy snacks and sodas, a live squid from the bait tank, or any hot food that could be deep-fried. We were plopping Twinkies into the deep fryer long before it became popular at county fairs. All transactions were made through take-out windows. Above the concession was an apartment where our manager, Hazel and her husband, Gary lived. All of the employees were teenagers like me, working at our first job in an environment that invited mischief.  Gee, I wonder what would happen if we tried to feed a hot dog to a squid? 

One morning, we were gathered in front of the concession for an employee meeting.  Hazel had caught us in an epic food fight the day before and we were in trouble.  She sipped at a cup of steaming cocoa while she addressed our bad behavior and lack of maturity.  The five of us leaned with our backs against the pier railing facing her, arms crossed and nodding, trying to appear contrite.  Hazel was in her late 20s.  She had short blonde hair, a sturdy build, and plain face unadorned by makeup.  She was a mix of masculine attitude, no doubt developed during a stint in the Navy, and feminine sensitivity. This morning she was all business, which made her seem much older than we were.   As she passionately delivered her reprimand, a pelican known to everyone as Pete, perched on the roof of the store.  With tail feathers trembling, he cast his gaze out to sea and dropped a healthy stream of pelican guano.  In that moment, Hazel was making a point with a particularly expansive gesture.  Her arms were spread, her hand holding the cocoa aloft as Pete’s liquid bomb dispersed in the breeze and several drops landed in her cup.  We saw it.  Hazel did not. 

We weren’t sure what to do.  There was a part of us that wanted the unthinkable: for her to take a big gulp of hot steaming bird poo.  Hazel continued to gesture with the cup in her hand, moving it this way and that, now and then moving it toward her mouth only to pull it back to make another point.  When at last she stopped talking and raised the cup to her lips, we all leaned forward in anticipation.  Just as she was about to sip from the cup, she was distracted by a man asking when the bait shop opened.  We heaved a collective sigh — not sure if it was disappointment or relief — and relaxed against the railing again.  She turned back to us.  “I want you all to remember this is a business, not a playground,” she said with finality.  We nodded in agreement.  We’ll be good.  One of the guys was growing impatient and asked Hazel if she was ever going to drink her cocoa.  We struggled to keep a straight face. “Yeah,” she said.  “Why, you want some?”  She held the cup toward him. No!  We sputtered and laughed like idiots. She looked at us suspiciously. She looked down into the cup and, seeing no obvious signs of tampering, raised it to her lips. “Wait!” I blurted.  Hazel stopped; lips still pursed for a sip.  “What?” She said, brows furrowed. “Pete dropped a bomb in your cocoa,” I said.

She looked up at Pete, who sat hunched and sleeping.  She looked in the cup again. Swirled it.  Smelled it.  “You’re shittin’ me,” she said, and looked to us for acknowledgement. Reading our faces, she had a moment of queasiness, then walked to the railing and poured the cup into the ocean.  She stood there a minute looking into the water, then tapped the railing and laughed her big laugh. “Man, you guys are wimps.  I would never have told.”

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When I was a teenager, my friend John and I were walking down the steps of his front porch when he spied something barely moving in the grass.  “What IS that?” He said, not really asking.  We walked over to the grayish lump on the ground and looked down.  It was a baby bird, featherless, with closed eyes and a beak too big for his head.  It looked otherworldly, like a tiny alien.  We looked around.  “Where could it have come from?”  The hatchling was in the middle of the lawn; there were no trees nearby and no nests in the eves of the house.  It looked to be literally dropped from the sky.  The little bird twitched its featherless wing and rolled his head weakly on its scrawny neck.

“What do we do?”  I asked, near tears.  Poor little thing.  John knelt down for a closer look. “Looks like it just hatched,” he said, gingerly turning it over, looking for clues.  “I wonder if a cat got it or something and just dropped it here when it heard us coming outside.”  He stood up and wiped his hands on his shorts.  “We should get a shoebox or something to put it in.”  His feathered hair hung in his eyes, his blue eyes glittered in the sun.

“Right,” I said.  A plan.  Though I didn’t know why a shoebox would help.  To keep it warm?  To bury it?  My thoughts were interrupted by his mother, who was clomping down the porch steps toward us.  She was short, stout, loud, and brash.  Her given name was Louise, but she had always gone by the nickname, Tiny. Everyone called her that except John.  He called her Louise.  Her shoulder-length, bleached blonde hair was split into short, thick ponytails. Her skin was deeply tanned, her favorite carnation pink lipstick bright against her face.  She was from New Hampshire and her strong New England accent was evident when she demanded, “What’re you two gawkin’ at?”   

She stood next to John and looked down at the bird, then turned her eyes to the two of us, shaking her head in disgust.  She breathed in heavily and in one ‘ sudden move, brought her foot down hard on the bird, crushing it.  I jumped back and yelped, my hands over my face.  John croaked a loud, “Louise!”  We were horrified.  Sick.  Reeling.

Tiny wiped her shoe in the grass and told us to calm down.  “Jeez, the two of ya’s,” she scolded. “Nothin’ should be made to suffah like that.” Before going back into the house, she turned to John and said, “Get somethin’ to scoop that up before a cat gets to it.”  She glared at us again.  “Jeez, the two of ya’s.”

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Several years ago, there was an attraction in Fremont, California called The Birdbath Carwash.  It was featured on a national magazine show, which made it very popular and hard to get into.  For five dollars, you could have your car professionally washed while you wandered through an aviary of sorts, that housed a large number of free-flying exotic birds.  We were living in the Bay Area at the time and the car wash was not far from work, so I decided to check it out on my lunch hour one day.

I paid my money, handed over my car keys, and began my stroll through the main attraction.  It was filled with bird-friendly structures, lush plants and flowers, and true to the hype, gorgeous birds were everywhere.  A man sat at a tall desk in the corner and waved as I walked by.  “Enjoy,” he said.  I was just getting into the Zen of it all, when a large white cockatoo flew toward my head and pulled a strand of hair from my temple.  Startled, I swung at it.  I had just smoothed my hair and collected myself when it came at me again, more aggressively this time.  It landed on my shoulder and kept pecking in my hair.  I screamed and called to the man at the desk for help.  With my arms crossed in front of my face, I ducked and ran, feeling like Tippy Hedren. The man rushed over and took hold of the bird, who was clinging to my shoulder refusing to budge.  “Blanco, Blanco!” He scolded. “Let go.” Blanco responded with loud, screeching bird gibberish. “He’s attracted to your earrings,” the man told me. I was wearing big, shiny silver hoops that apparently mesmerized the bird.  The man apologized, as he coaxed Blanco onto his own shoulder. “Gosh, I’ve never seen him do that before.” 

“Well, how lucky am I?” I said, frazzled.  I removed my earrings and stuffed them in my purse.  The man walked away with Blanco, who squawked like a toddler deprived of a toy.  I hurried out of the building and waited for my car outside.  A pigeon meandered in front of me, his head bobbing forward and back.  I checked myself for shiny objects.  My watch glinted in the sun, and I covered it with my hand.  “Look, bird, don’t even think about it,” I said.

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Years ago, while working in Pleasanton, Calfornia, I had a run-in with a turkey.

Pleasanton is lovely, picturesque, and a magnet to wild turkeys.  It is not unusual to see them on side streets or lumbering through parks and parking lots.  I once saw one circling a table on the patio at Nordstroms’ Café.  A waiter came out to shoo it away, arms waving and shouting, “Go! Go!  Or I’ll take you to the kitchen!”  He looked at me, smiling.  Good one.  I responded with the obligatory thumbs up and said, “You sure scared him!  He won’t come back here!”  We laughed for a minute, and I ate my sandwich.

A few days later, after running an errand on my lunch hour, I pulled into the employee parking lot. When I went to climb out of my car, a turkey came running toward my car as if he were trying to escape a mugger.  He blocked my car door, looking into my window, his head bobbing back and forth. Whatcha got in there?  I rolled the window down a bit and shouted at him.  Shoo!  Shoo!  I honked my horn.  I started my engine, hoping the noise would deter him.  It did not deter the turkey, but it did bring a group of coworkers to the window, watching my struggle and roaring with laughter.  When the turkey got bored and headed away from my car, I grabbed my purse, opened the door and made a run toward the employee entrance.  Damn it!  Where’s my card key?  I fished inside my purse while the turkey chased me in circles, gobbling and flapping.  He was huge, ugly, and terrifying. One of my coworkers opened the door for me, “Run!  C’mon!  The door is open,” she shouted, arms waving me in.  I bobbed and weaved with the turkey on my heels before finally getting to the open door.  The turkey ran right up behind me, dangerously close to entering the building.  I looked out the glass door, waving my fist at the bird.  “You bastard, Frank!”  “Frank?” My friend asked.  She was doubled over, laughing so hard she was coughing.  “Yes,” I said, “anything that evil has to have a name.  Frank fits.  Fat Frank.”  I glanced up at the video camera hanging outside over the door with a perfect view of the mayhem.  Oh, God.  I shrank.  The whole thing is on video.

For a while I feared the video would find its way to the internet, but then stopped thinking about it. Who cares? It’s probably hilarious. The turkey was seen a few more times in our parking lot over the coming months, and he was always, and will forever be, referred to as Frank.

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In one of my earlier posts, “Starbucks Memories,” I wrote about a bird that flew into Starbucks and reeked havoc. I’m reprinting here because it fits with the theme and I believe it is worth revisiting. 🙂

A small group of us were taking a break from work.  We sat at a table sipping our coffee when a bird about the size of a pigeon, but not a pigeon, flew in through the open door.  It flapped around in a panic, dropping downy feathers as it fluttered overhead, from one end of the store to the other.  People ducked and skittered away when the bird came close on its frantic search for a way out.  An employee grabbed a broom to gently guide it toward the door, but the bird clearly saw this as a threat and flew in the opposite direction.  A couple of people stood at the open front door, swinging their arms outside, gesturing to the bird that this was the way out.  When it landed on the counter, a worker tried to grab it with both hands, but it took to the air, flying toward the front windows.  Our fear was that it would mistake the large windows for the outdoors and fly into one, possibly breaking its neck.  After a few minutes, it settled on the floor, turning its head this way and that, maybe trying to get its bearings.  Where the Hell am I?  It hopped on our table for a brief moment, which we all found enchanting, and then casually flew out the door as if to say, just kidding.