There are chirping sounds outside my office window today, and I bet this visiting bird is doing a countdown to the first day of spring. Now and then, I go to the window to see if I can spot her – and to make sure she keeps a safe distance. Three decades ago, I let a bird get too close, and things turned ugly.
Flashback to the spring of 1995, when I was about to graduate from college. I had a one-bedroom apartment, an ancient Honda Accord, and a part-time job as a bank teller (which made perfect sense for the English degree I was about to graduate with). One morning as I left for class, I noticed a few stray twigs hanging off the grapevine wreath I’d hung on my door. Assuming the wind had blown them there, I plucked them off and headed toward campus.
When I returned home, I saw those same stray twigs plus several others sticking out of the wreath again. I looked closer and realized the twigs weren’t strays at all. They were deliberately placed and curved into a small but beautiful bird nest. While I’d been in class, a bird had built a home on my front door. I went inside and gently closed the door so the nest could stay put.
For several days, as I turned the doorknob to leave, I’d hear the familiar rustle of wings as the mama bird flew from her nest. I’d exit quietly and glance at the nest, admiring how cozy she’d made it. Then one day, when I peeked inside, I saw three tiny blue eggs. I felt as proud as a foster mama bird could be. We were expecting!
I snapped pictures of my front door nest and the eggs inside, sharing updates with friends, family, and curious neighbors. All that was left was the waiting. I ate a lot of late-night ice cream in solidarity with the expectant mama bird.
Then, finally, it happened. As I opened the door to leave, I heard a chorus of baby squeaks and squawks. Three open beaks poked up out of the nest, their wobbly heads barely supported by thin, rubbery necks.
As I stood there cooing over my newborns, I looked up just in time to see the mama bird flying straight at me. She dive-bombed me, wildly flapping her wings. I quickly shut the door and sprinted away as she settled back onto the nest. I’m no expert in bird language, but I had the distinct feeling she’d just made it clear that there was only one new mother here, and it definitely wasn’t me. I was simply the landlord, and I was no longer welcome.
What had begun as an idyllic springtime scene had turned into something much more complicated. There was only one way in or out of my second-floor apartment, and that door was being guarded by a territorial bird turned mama bear.
I considered moving the nest off my door but worried it would cause the bird to abandon her babies. Instead, I decided to knock on my own door from the inside and wait until the mama bird flew away before opening it. When it was time to come home again, I used an open umbrella as a makeshift shield against any possible bird attacks. I made lots of noise upon my approach, hoping she’d fly off long enough for me to get inside. The neighbors thought it was nuts, and they weren’t wrong.
Eventually, as spring turned to summer, I came home one day to an empty nest. Leaving behind only a few unsightly droppings on my door, the baby birds and their mama had flown away.
They never call. They never write. Not even a text. It’s just further proof that sometimes you do the right thing, and all you get is pooped on.
Gwen Rockwood is a syndicated freelance columnist. Email her at gwenrockwood5@gmail.com. Her books are available on Amazon.