On the Ingratitude of Birds

As has been remarked upon by literally every parent, having a child changes things.  In this case, it resulted in a child’s obsession, a wall of chickens, and my growing resentment towards ungrateful birds. 

My son loves birds.  I nurtured this feeling as I once shared his fondness.  Growing up, I had a cockatiel named Bird that screeched sweet songs to the entire family at all hours of the day.  As a young boy, this was a wonderful situation that brought me great amusement.  So of course, I wanted to shepherd my son’s journey down a similar path.

Birds, though, have the gift of flight.  Toddlers, thankfully, do not.  This made it difficult for him to observe his avian friends, as his excited shrieking and flailing sprints towards them has a 100% success rate at scaring them away.  What he needed was a way to observe them from inside the house.  A station of sorts for the birds to alight upon, where he could behold their majesty without instilling panic in their little hearts.

He needed a bird feeder.

Into the car we went, off to the local Petco whose website assured me had multiple bird feeders in stock.  Even better, this Petco also has cats from the local adoption agency (cats being my son’s favorite creature, because I’m raising him right).  We would find much joy and merriment there, I figured, then return home to settle in for an afternoon of bird watching.

Alas, it was not to be.  The cat area sat as empty as my hopes soon came to be, and the promised bird feeders failed to materialize.  We wandered the aisles in a forlorn stupor, shocked that a corporate behemoth would have the audacity to lie to its customers.  I did, anyways—my son burbled with excitement every time he saw a package of cat food with a feline pictured on it.

Many would shrug their shoulders at this point and head home, but not I.  I am a good father, and like all good fathers, the appropriate course of action was to take my 15-month son to the back corner of a sketchy looking strip mall to what Google maps assured me was a vendor of fine bird feeders. 

We couldn’t see what awaited us at the facility as it sat behind a decrepit stairwell and the chain link fence that kept the monster contained in The Sandlot.  But what we couldn’t see, we could certainly hear—a cacophony of bird sounds.  It was as though a Taiwanese parliamentary brawl had erupted just around the corner, but with words replaced by bird noises.  And legislators with birds.  Really, it was nothing like that, but I was excited to see it nonetheless.

Yet when we rounded the corner, what we saw instead was an entire wall of chickens.  Dozens of them, stacked up in neat little rows, staring right back at us.  If you’ve never felt the gaze of a hundred chickens, I assure you that it is an experience worth noting.  It carries a palpable weight, as if to say, “Had this meeting occurred 80 million years ago, the roles of diner and dinner would be forcibly reversed.”

Once past the poultry descendants of mightier beings, we entered the store itself.  A quick glance revealed feed options for a variety of farm animals, a triplet of workers confused to see a toddler in their place of business, and a lack of bird feeders.

One of the workers asked what they could help me with in the tones of someone trying to calm a spooked animal, which I appreciated.  I asked if they carried bird feeders, to which they asked if I meant for chickens (of which they had a startingly wide variety).  Once we clarified I meant wild birds, one of the workers perked up.

“Yeah!” he said, my new hero striding forward to save the day.  “I think we’ve had these hanging here for three years now.”

Undeterred by the underwhelming sales pitch, my son and I waited for our hero to retrieve the Grail of our quest.  He then proceeded to knock the bird feeder off a ceiling hook with a stick.  “Ten bucks,” the modern Sir Lancelot said, handing over the cheap plastic.

Bird feeder and five pounds of bird seed in hand, we returned home in triumph.  My son did his happy toddler dance as we hung it up right outside his favorite window.  The stage was set for hours of happy birdwatching, now all we had to do was wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

Three days have passed, and not a single winged creature has taken us up on this generous offer of free food.  I’d think we had entered a birdpocolypse if not for the hundreds of other birds I’ve seen flying around our house.  They appear content with being everywhere except for where the birdfeeder sits, to include slamming headfirst into the very window the birdfeeder sits in front of.

On day one, I thought perhaps our birds needed time to adjust.  There are plenty of neighborhood cats, after all—can I blame them for wanting to scope out the situation to make sure it isn’t a trap?

On day two, I thought perhaps our birds are just stupid.  Their cranial capacity would struggle to contain a moderately sized peanut, after all—can I blame them for their inability to process higher order thoughts like my generosity?

Sitting here on day three, staring out the window near my desk at the still-unused bird feeder, I now have a different theory. 

These birds are spiteful.  They see my offer, this olive branch of kindness in exchange for nothing more than their presence at the feeder to fill a young life with joy, and they scoff.  They laugh at my naiveite, scorning both my food and offer of shelter with their beaks in the air.  I knew the animal world was cruel, but this…this is too much.

I am a creature of the internet, so I have turned to Google for advice on how to proceed.  The first result?  “Be patient.” 

Birds, man.