A Walker in the Suburbs

I found the little guy on the deck yesterday, a fledgling that didn’t make it, a pile of bones and feathers and a faint blush of pink that promised the bright hues of a male cardinal.

I work in an upstairs office with two big windows overlooking the backyard. Sometimes there’s a thump when a bird hits the glass or screen, but usually it flies off and survives. Was this bird one that didn’t? Or did it starve? Unlikely given the bounty of seed so close at hand with our feeder, though juveniles can be crowded out there.

Nights have been cold lately. Could this wee creature have frozen in the chill? The pruned azalea offers less shelter than it did pre-shearing. Whatever took him, I hope it was quick and painless. Birds belong in the air and trees, full of breath and life.

(Maybe all that little bird needed was a house like this.)

Yesterday I was shocked to learn not just of the firings at Health and Human Services — we had been expecting them — but of how they were executed. Whole departments eliminated. Civil servants waiting in line for hours only to learn as they reached the door that they had been let go. This is more than a “reduction in force.” This is intimidation. This is meanness and cruelty.

I woke up this morning thinking of the institutional knowledge that is being lost, of the kind of country we’re creating with these careless and corrosive decisions. What do I do with this angst and anger? I could protest, of course — and I may. But would it help? The people who can make a difference stand silent and impotent.

It’s not yet light outside, but I hear the first birds singing. I learned recently from Amy Tan’s The Backyard Bird Chronicles that 75 percent of songbirds die before they’re a year old. They starve or fall prey to a hungry hawk. But the ones who survive wake up singing. “Each day is a chance to survive,” Tan writes.

I look out the window. It’s still too dark to see the birds, but I can hear them. I know they’re perching in the trees, waiting for the light. For them, today is another chance to survive. And for us, too.

(A mountain bluebird in southern Colorado, 2019)

For the last two days we’ve been in a battle of sorts with our remaining parakeet, Cleo. Having just lost her companion, Toby, we’re in no mood to lose her, too. But she seems determined to escape, even if it means killing herself in the process.

On Tuesday we found her flying around the living room and kitchen, banging into the glass patio doors, bouncing off the ceiling and finally, after 10 harrowing minutes, coming to rest on the outside of her cage. From there, she was quickly dispatched to the inside with the use of a towel.

Yesterday’s near escape was almost more terrifying. I found her halfway through the bars of a cage which I now realize is a little too open for her (.6 rather than .5 inches between bars). Who knew? None of our other parakeets have been such escape artists. But Cleo is female — and feisty.

She’s about to move into tighter quarters, slightly more snug inside with less space between the cage bars. We’re hoping these new digs will discourage escape attempts.

Ultimately, of course, she needs more freedom and a new friend, both of which take time to make happen. So for now, and until her new accommodations are readied, I’m working beside her, keeping an eye on this beautiful blue parakeet, making sure this caged bird sings … but does not stray.

(Cleo behind bars, where we hope she stays.)

The parakeet Toby died unexpectedly last night. He hadn’t seemed quite himself lately but he had also been moulting, so I attributed his lethargy to this cyclical loss of feathers.

I’ve tried to “loss-proof” pet ownership by having two parakeets. This hasn’t worked, because each of these tiny creatures has a personality. Each is a unique being that has never been before and will never be again. If that’s true of the domestic birds in my care, then it’s also true of the wild birds, the sparrows and cardinals and wrens and woodpeckers. It’s true of the deer, fox and squirrels. It’s probably even true of the crickets and spiders — but I don’t want to carry this too far.

Toby was a sweetheart. He was patient and kind. He sang his heart out. He withstood an undue amount of abuse from his cage mate, Cleo. His one fault, which may have been a fatal one, was his fondness for seed. He was a portly fellow.

I never planned to write much about animals in this blog. I would describe the walks I took, the thoughts I had while taking them. No silly pet posts. Lofty notions only. But the animals we take into our homes become a part of us. I could do worse, much worse, than to write about them.

It came out of nowhere, wings flapping, talons at the ready, and before I could process what was happening I was fighting off a red-shouldered hawk. It didn’t want me for lunch. But it was definitely interested in the parakeets sitting outside with me, blithely chirping and hopping around in their cage, taking in the unseasonable warmth.

The red-shouldered hawk is a substantial bird, weighing a pound or more with a wingspan of several feet. I often hear hawks, and I see them occasionally, too, either in flight or perched nearby.

I never thought I’d have to fight one, though. Because the raptor was not discouraged by my first swat. It circled around and came back for more. It knew what it wanted and was determined to have it. Had I not been there it would likely have killed the budgies; its talons are long enough to reach inside the cage.

I often rhapsodize about the natural world — and why not? It comforts and inspires me; it connects me with the divine. But to live among wild creatures means to accept them on their own terms. The hawk is a predator. Parakeets are prey. The flimsy bars of a birdcage are a very small part of this equation.

(A closeup of Toby before the attack. Afterward, he made himself very small and didn’t move a muscle.)