Every pet is different. Dogs have owners. Cats have servants. I don’t have any pets, but I do have “my birds.”
“My birds” is a phrase I hear more often these days. I suspect that it’s another consequence of a certain global pandemic.
I know it’s made a subtle change in how I view my own backyard.
I will admit that an extended period of home isolation put me more in touch with my furry and feathered neighbors. I got to know my local birds better — how they behaved and how they interacted with each other.
I got to know my squirrels and chipmunks better, too. I never could warm up to mice, however.
I soon started finding myself saying “my birds,” even though I knew they were wild, free and transient.
But the truth is, I really did get to know some of them personally. And they got to know me. My hairy and downy woodpeckers got used to me hanging around more. They don’t even flinch now when I walk out the door.
My chickadees were always semi-tame. One morning, I took their favorite sunflower seed feeder off its pole and held it in my outstretched arm. Sure enough, they decided I was harmless, and swooped in to grab lunch under my nose.
So far, I have not tried to encourage them to feed out of my hand. I think it’s best if they remain a little wary of me.
I want “my” birds to stay wild. It’s a dangerous world. They need to stay vigilant. I don’t want to excessively encroach on their world.
On the other hand, some of them encroach on mine. American robins, eastern phoebes and mourning doves have all nested on my porch at one time or another.
The phoebes do it every year. After they’re done nesting, I spend at least one morning washing the bird poop off my deck railings.
So that’s where we leave things. I watch them. They watch me.
I watch how they visit feeders. Chickadees, nuthatches and titmice dart in, grab a seed and carry it off to safety. Sometimes they’ll come over to the porch to check on me, just to make sure I’m behaving myself.
Blue jays and mourning doves sit on the feeder and stuff themselves, but skedaddle if I twitch a muscle.
Lesson learned: the smaller birds are more comfortable in the safety of tree branches. Larger birds will stay in the open, but flee at the slightest sign of trouble.
Woodpeckers are bold. They ignore me and sit on the suet for as long as they want, relying on their own instincts and the warnings of other birds to keep them safe. They don’t seem to mind having me around at all.
Finches are bold, especially the smaller ones. Purple finches and American goldfinches will sit on the feeder until they’re satisfied. They won’t bolt the moment I appear in the yard, but they won’t let me get as close as the chickadees do, either.
I now have a sense of each bird’s comfort zone, and try not to violate it.
The best way to avoid being a threat to birds is to not look like a threat. Avoid staring at them or moving directly toward them. Walk slowly and nonchalantly around the yard. If they’re watching you and appear concerned, back off.
I watch my birds interact with each other. Do the white-breasted and red-breasted nuthatches get along? Yes.
Who dominates the feeder, blue jays or mourning doves? Neither. The smaller purple finch intimidates both species.
Will the larger hairy woodpeckers bully the smaller downy woodpeckers on the suet? Sometimes, but not usually.
One phrase I hear even more often than “my birds” is “my hummingbirds.” That’s fair.
Hummingbirds are fearless, and each bird is apt to stake a claim on a particular flower patch or feeder. Whatever’s within that circle belongs to them, including me. If I’m wearing a bright-colored shirt, they may even buzz me to see if I’m edible.
I spend money on my birds. Feeders and feed are not cheap.
I keep the feeders clean, and safely away from windows and cats. I maintain bird-friendly vegetation around the yard.
My pseudo-pets may be wild, but they’re cared for. We share the same space with mutual respect.
I feel justified in thinking of them as “my birds.” And they can think of me as “their Bob.” Or not. They can make up their own minds.
