Let's face it, fellow humans --- birds are
slowly turning against us. Were it not for the decorative birdhouses
we've built to appease them, they might well have begun the full-fledged
assault already.
I myself have particular, painful, knowledge
of just how vicious our avian adversaries can be. My grade school sat
at the bottom of a hill behind my house, and thus every morning I'd set
out down the hill to get to class. The hill itself was rather rough,
covered in grass and bushes and whatnot, but there was one clear path
that ran along a small trench that went almost directly from my backyard
gate to the schoolyard below.
One catch: the trench was also
an ideal nesting place. Almost every day I walked down that hill, I was accosted by a grouse that leapt up to squawk at me for
getting too close to its babies. I'm pretty certain that it wasn't just
one bird, either, that was just stalking me Jaws-style. The attacks
came at various points along the path, so I'm guessing it was a whole
mess of grouses (greese?) that were happily living there like it was their own
personal Sesame Street, only to occasionally rise up against the big
galoot of a 12-year-old that invaded their personal space twice a day. The hell of it was, while I could count on an attack coming on a more-or-less daily
basis, I never knew where specifically the grouse would pounce. Though
it was a group of birds, I simply referred to my nemesis as "The Grouse"
since for some reason I was never attacked twice in any one given trip up
or down the hill. It was almost like the birds were sitting in a group
drawing straws, and on Tuesday it would be, say, Squawky's turn, he'd
jump out at me, and then Squawky would go back to the gang and accept
some high-fives and backslaps.
You might ask, of course, why
didn't I take a different path down the hill? As I said, it was a rough
hill. And there was a path RIGHT THERE. It was a matter of principle.
I could've also taken the long way around my block and walked down to
the school down the concrete steps, but that would've taken an extra 10
minutes, and it was a journey I rarely took unless it was raining (since
a grouse attack on a muddy hill is potentially disastrous) or I was
walking home with someone. And, I refer to my earlier quote....it's a
matter of principle. Here I was, blessed with a school literally in my
backyard and I wasn't going to throw away that perk of a short commute
just over a few pesky grouses.
And my principles stood strong,
since I eventually won that battle. By the eighth grade, the birds
stopped attacking. The real reason for this cease-fire was probably due
to, I dunno, the increased development in the area, so the birds took
off. But if you talk to my mother, it's because one day, she saw a hawk
circling around in the sky and taking periodic dives towards the hill.
So my mum grabs a broom, goes outside, and starts waving the broom in
the air in an attempt to scare off the hawk and 'save' the grouse's
nests. Since this event coincided with the start of my eighth grade
year and the end of the attacks, she claims that by chasing off the
hawk, The Grouse (using their Borg-like hive mind) appreciated the
gesture and let me pass by as a sign of respect towards our family.
Problems
abound with this theory. It is 100 percent more likely that the hawk was
diving at a squirrel or rabbit, rather than a grouse nest. Also, I'm
pretty sure the grouses didn't get another in a town hall-meeting format
and announce that now the Broom Lady's son was to be given free
passageway through their territory. A grouse can't hold a gavel, so how
would they know when to stop and start the meeting, anyway?
But,
since the attacks stopped, my mother's native creation myth persists to
this day. Hey, what the hell, maybe that was the reason, for all I
know about a bird's mind operates. All I know is that I was able to
confidently stroll up and down that hill like a regular Fast Happy Cat
without worrying that at any moment, a squawking pile of feathers was
going to appear as if from nowhere.
All of life's problems can be
solved by a middle-aged woman with a broom.
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