A Strange and Horrible Tale

Birds hate me. It is an indisputable fact. Birds really, really hate me.

At various times in my life I've been attacked by a goose, a swan, and a parrot. My sister used to own a little blue parakeet that everybody thought was the sweetest little thing. It hated me. I would often be sitting in the living room reading a book or watching television, and could feel its little bird eyes boring in on me; hatred radiating from its fancy blue plumage. It would often squawk obnoxiously at me when I entered the room. It has long since flown off to that heavenly coop in the sky, but the memories will haunt me forever.

Why I'm the focus of this avian rage escapes me. Perhaps it is a trait I inherited from my father. One of my earliest memories is a family outing to the African Lion Safari where he was attacked by a chicken in the petting zoo. It flew into an uncontrollable rage and chased him, pecking at his ankles viciously. My family being my family, we looked on in shock, then laughed our heads off. Perhaps my feathery travails are the result of a karmic payback for my complete lack of sympathy. Or perhaps there is some truth to the sins of the father being visited on the son. Oh father, what did you do?

The latest feathery foot soldier in this cross-species campaign is a little black bird with bright red wings that resides in the park down the road. (I should probably take heed of the advice "Know thine enemy" and check an encyclopaedia or Google to find out exactly what kind of bird it is, but that just seems like too much effort. They're birds for cryin' out loud. I gotta getta grip.)

This little black-feathered, red-winged Terminator is determined to inflict grievous bodily harm on me. It waits in the same tree along the same path waiting for me to pass underneath. Every time I do, it squawks and swoops down on my head. The top of my skull is riddled with tiny little scratches from its claws and I'm sure little bald patches are starting to appear—it's a hair-puller.

I have done a little reconnaissance to see how it reacts to others and, not surprisingly, have discovered it does nothing! Scores of people have walked underneath with no ill-will displayed. It just sits on its branch chirping merrily away while the world passes it by. I've watched it do this. Then I walk underneath and SQUAWK! SWOOOOOSH! SCRATCH! OWWWWW! Others look on and laugh. This isn't random; this is personal.

Which brings me to this morning.

Taking a break from work, I decided to go for a little cruise in my cool purple Sunfire with the matching dents on either side. (I'm proud of that. No-one ever parks next to me.) With the window down and the radio on, I drove around the streets of Burlington, basking in the warmth of the day and my own self-delusional coolness. I didn't have a care in the world. Sometimes life just doesn't get any better.

The incident that followed is emblazoned in my memory forever. I was stopped at a traffic light about fifty yards from the Birdinator's tree. With peculiarly ironic timing, Corey Hart was bleating "Never Surrender" on the radio.

I heard, more than saw or felt anything; "So if you're lo-o-ost and on your own." WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSHHHHH! THUNK! PLOP! "A-a-and your path won't lead you home."

I looked down beside me and there lay a little black bird with bright red wings lying on the passenger seat—dead.

I simply stared at it; my mind completely blank, not knowing how to react. It had flown through the open window, zipped by right in front of my face, and crashed into the passenger door.

I was stunned. Not knowing how to react I sat there simply staring at the feathery corpse in the passenger seat. Only the angry honking of horns behind me, telling me the light was green and had been for some time, broke the trance enough for me to go through the motions of functionality.

I drove away, stopped briefly to surreptitiously dispose of the fallen warrior in a public garbage can, using an oil-streaked J-Cloth as a makeshift burial shroud, and went straight home.

I don't know if that was the same bird that has been tormenting me for weeks. I don't know if it was a deliberate attack or an odd coincidence. I'm not even sure if Corey Hart's raspy tones serve as a call to arms for bird warriors world-wide. In fact, I don't know what to think at all.

I do know I won't be sleeping well tonight or any night for the next few weeks. I will be lying in bed, listening to the birds outside, straining to make out the twittering melody of "Never Surrender" in sweet birdsong, and trembling with fear.