Hawks create a conflict of heart. They're gorgeous, interesting, and wonderful to photograph because they’ll pose for you. If you’re lucky, you may get a chance to stare into their eyes or experience their shadow flicker over you like a dark ghost as they inspect your property for rodents. They’re amazing creatures, but, well, they eat other birds, or some do. They eat cute bunnies. They eat your squirrels. That’s the thing about the animal kingdom. There’s a lot of killing. Wild life is quite cruel, so when you put up a bird feeder, be prepared. Bird lovers know that there are hawks, and then there are hawks. Like Cooper’s hawks, Sharpies, Harriers, all of whom eat birds. We don’t like them. However, red-tailed hawks eat squirrels, rats, bunnies, mice and sometime bigger birds like ducks, chickens and, well, Cooper’s hawks. They’re OK. Nevertheless, birds scream and send alarms on all hawks, regardless of their preferred meal. I read somewhere in cyberworld database-- where we go with our bird questions-- that one can measure intelligence in the bird kingdom by studying their collection of food. How much thought they put into finding, collecting food can tell you a bit about their bird I.Q. Do they use tools? Are they patient enough to wait for a better meal? Do they plan the food collection and does this planning ever involve other animals of their species? I.E. Do they have a hunting group? If the above were indeed a measure of bird intelligence, I’d say the hawk, particularly the red-tailed hawk, has a high I.Q. I’ve seen them attack in pairs, one chasing a squirrel into an area where its partner waits patiently. I’ve seen a hawk sit in my pine half a day, waiting patiently for prey to come under my bird feeder. I’ve seen a hawk ignore an easy target of food—a dove—in order to obtain a bigger meal—a squirrel. In fact, if patience had a direct relationship to intelligence, then I’d say hawks are geniuses. Because not one thing on earth is as patient as a hawk. OK, so the hawk is smart. But what about their ability to relate to humans? Are they nice? My first response is No. No. No. Hawks are vicious. They love the hunt, not just because they love to eat, but because they simply like killing. A great book about hawks --H is for HAWK by Helen Macdonald—discusses this trait. It’s a terrific book, by the way, if you are looking to understand hawks through the eyes of a falconer. I’m not a fan of the falconer sport (more on that later) but I do believe good falconers like this writer understand hawks. Anyway, yes, maybe hawks are rather scary creatures because of their love of the hunt. But, come on, we humans love to hunt! Human hunters who are in it for the sport of killing exist in every region of our country. Duck hunters. Deer hunters. There are human trophy hunters who travel afar in order to bring a severed head home. So, don’t go accusing the hawk of being this unique killer without recognizing ourselves as killers, too. At least the hawk makes good use of its kill. However, if you’ve seen a hawk kill, you may be wary of them. They eat their prey while it’s still alive. Birds know this, so in the bird kingdom, nothing is more terrifying than a Cooper’s hawk suddenly flying by and landing on a branch near you. Us bird feeders all know when a Cooper’s hawk is around because the birds disappear from the feeder and the birds in the trees freeze like statues. They don’t dare fly, because a Cooper’s hawk specializes in capturing the bird in flight. If you’ve witnessed a Cooper’s hawk capturing a bird, as I have, you will have respect for their acrobatics. If you’re a bird and one of those creatures are around, you don’t dare hit the air. And if you’re a squirrel, you always stay by a tree, because if you’re out in a field or lawn away from any escape route, you're vulnerable to the greatest serial killer of them all--the red-tailed hawk. A red-tailed hawk is able to circle its hunting territory from way up high in the sky--where the airplanes fly. They can reconnoiter like this because of they have 20/5 vision. They see five times farther than we can see. Many people worry about their cats and small terriers when a red-tailed is in the air. But if food is abundant, most experts insist a hawk will not attempt to snatch your pet. It is always a possibility, so anyone owning a pet below, say, 10-15 pounds should keep an eye on them when they’re outside. But for the most part, a hawk doesn’t want to get hurt. A predator hunt is difficult. It requires speed, intelligence, excellent eyesight. Therefore, the body of a predator must be maintained like a well-oiled engine. If attacked and harmed in any way, the hawk will go hungry. They therefore mess with prey they know how to attack. Dogs are problematic. Cats? Depends. Sure, the hawk may grab your chicken, because they don’t understand that the chicken is a business or a pet. They may grab your duck because they have no idea it belongs to your duck farm. This may inspire one to kill the hawk or capture the hawk. Don’t. And this brings us to the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, which are treaties that have been around forever. The Canada treaty was originally signed in 1916. Mexico in 1936. Then Japan and Russia. These treaties apply only to species that have evolved from natural biological or ecological processes, not invasive species placed here by humans. The agreements protect major migratory birds from human interference and prohibit killing, capturing, selling, transporting any birds protected by the Act. And a lot of birds are covered by this act. You can find the list here-- https://www.ecfr.gov/cgi-bin/text-idx?SID=b85587342ebe4f607983dfb6d1e07461&mc=true&node=se50.1.10_113&rgn=div8. You will notice that hawks are one of the species protected by this act. This means that even if the hawk killed your chicken, duck ,or even cat, you cannot kill the hawk. So, don’t even think about it. This protection may be troubling for many chicken farmers or duck farmers or even occasional grieving cat owner. But there are reasons for this protection, important reasons. We humans have placed many barriers to the survival of birds. We’ve overdeveloped. We’ve built structures that interfere with migration. We fly airplanes that sometimes suck birds into their engines. We’ve cut down their homes-- trees. Birds are critical to our ecosystem. They distribute seeds. Some, like hummingbirds, help us pollinate. They naturally clean our environment of waste. They provide food for other species. And they fill our air with song and beauty. If we don’t protect them, we will be in danger of not only losing their contribution to the ecosystem, but also, a piece of ourselves. We already have lost many, by the way. A study that came out in 2019 published by Science Journal estimated that since 1970 1 in 4 birds have disappeared from our land. Weather radar data revealed an estimate 14 percent decline in nocturnal spring-migrating birds in the past decade alone. So, protect your prey from hawks by providing cover, and watching over them. But do not mess with the hawk. Unless you want to simply watch. And maybe engage. I know, I know. Who engages with a hawk, besides falconers?
I walked out and looked up at the tree canopy and noticed about a half dozen jays screaming. When I turned to walk away, there on a lower limb, about nine feet from my face, was one of the largest red-tailed hawks I have ever seen. Gorgeous. Feathers slightly extended. Beautiful, huge torso. Bright green eyes focused only on my eyes. It stared. I stared back. It did not move its eyes off of mine. The eyes were intense, even scary. I thought for a brief moment it was trying to scare me, or perhaps was contemplating an attack because I had ruined a hunt. But, no, it seemed only interested in staring. I backed up a bit and talked in a very soothing voice. “Wow, you’re gorgeous, aren’t you? You know this, though.” She remained perched. She kept staring. I talked a bit more. She stared. I kept my eyes on her. We had a moment. When I first engaged, the blue jays grew louder. But after I started talking to the hawk, the blue jays became quiet. In fact, I remember the yard falling completely still. No sound. Eventually Hawthorne flew off. A few weeks later, the turkeys in my yard crowded around a tree, all looking up. And there she was again. She didn’t like the turkeys so flew to another tree. I followed her and stared. She flew to another and looked back at me as I kept my eyes on her. We had another moment. I kept seeing her perched here and there. I would always say “Hey Hawthorne” every time I saw her. I wanted her to associate “Hawthorne” with our relationship. I made sure I called her in a soothing voice. I figure talking sounds like songs to birds so I make sure my song energy is peaceful. One day, she flew near my yard screaming her hawk scream and landed on a branch across the pond. I was outside at the time. I raised my arms as if I were going to take off and fly and called her name--kind of loud but not scream-y, “Hawthorne! Hawthorne!” She flew right towards me. When I say she flew towards me, she actually flew right at me, veered to my right within ten feet of me and settled upon a low-lying branch of a white pine. She stared at me, I stared at her. I talked to her a bit, gave her my rules. “You want my squirrels? You can have a squirrel if you catch it, but I cannot witness it. I cannot be here when you eat it. If I’m here, I won’t clap my hands at you, but I’ll subtly warn the squirrel. If I’m not here, go for it. You cannot eat any birds.” Of course, she had no clue what I was saying, but she did fly to another branch and sit for a few hours, searching for a squirrel. Early one morning, a week after she flew to me and I gave her my rules, a beheaded squirrel was left on the ground a few feet from my Japanese maple. My husband cleaned it off the ground. Organs were missing but nothing else was touched. She appeared later that day and hopped around the area where she had left the squirrel. The Turkeys surrounded her, so she eventually flew away. I’ve seen her catch one more squirrel, and then witnessed another hawk try to take her catch from her. It tried to attack her, so I walked outside. As soon as I appeared, the competitor flew away. She stayed. Later that day she flew up on a tree limb near me while I stood in my driveway. And we had another moment. I think, or suspect, she was thanking me for walking out and scaring the competitor away. She has also chased a Cooper’s hawk away on two occasions. One chase was right in front of my feeder. The Cooper’s hawk went after a sparrow and Hawthorne went after her. She didn’t catch it, though. Flash forward to March. She disappears I assume to build a nest. Then, one day she appears perched on a pine clearly visible from a window by my computer in my study. She now has a friend. Smaller, leaner, and quite handsome. They perch together. I managed to get a shot, but it’s taken through the window, so it’s not clear. This, I’m convinced, is her mate. As spring approaches, she's not around much--probably busy getting her house ready for the eggs. Then, a few days ago, I see her across the pond hopping about, trying to snatch a small rodent in the dead leaves covering the wetlands. I get my binoculars and check her out. She lifts her head and sees me looking and she’s off, flying to me. Directly to me. She swerves and lands on a low-lying branch right by my head. I look up. She looks at me. I say "Hi, Hawthorne." I talk, she stares. I stand. She perches. We have a long moment. I tell her to do me a favor and catch the Cooper’s hawk because it’s killed a few birds and I’m scared it’s going to eat a blue jay. She turns and flies off.
She's for sure building or even on a nest now. I'll see her again, but it won't be for a few months. Why is this red-tailed hawk engaging with me? Is she curious? Is she mad I am outside scaring away her prey? Or, is she an escaped falconer pet? Even if there's a possibility she used to belong to a falconer, I will not try to find the owner/hunter. Because I do not like that sport. I think it's cruel and entitled. Who are we to put a strap on a bird and tell it to hunt for us? She's free, she's happy. And if I have anything to do with it, she will remain that way. However, I truly don't believe she's an escaped pet. I think she's a determined hunter and sees me and my feeder as an opportunity. She seems to understand that birds are off limits. She seems to get I do not like Cooper's hawks because they eat birds. She's gone after one in front of me. She probably doesn't understand my squirrel rules but figures when I'm gone she can do as she pleases. So, do the birds understand Hawthorne? Have the blue jays changed their behavior around her? At least until nesting season? That’s next.
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...Before the story, a reminder. My novel, DEAD FISH and What the Blue jays Know, will be released on Earth Day, April 22. (publisher Bedazzled Ink Publishing). Preorder is available now. Click on the book cover above. Thanks. OK...now back to blue jays and squirrels. Based upon my various readings, blue jays are very territorial, particularly during nesting season. However, does the blue jay territorial protective instinct extend beyond the nest, beyond even their own extended family? All birds police territories, particularly the red-winged blackbird, one of the most vicious creatures on earth if you're anywhere near its nest. I've seen red winged blackbirds attack hawks, herons, crows. They're certainly the most courageous birds around. But their primary concern is that nest. They could care less about the rest of the neighborhood. I suspect bird specialists would say the same thing about the blue jays. They protect each other, the nest, and all the screaming relates to their self-interest. But, I don't know. Based upon my observations, blue jays appear to protect the yard and everyone in it, not simply their clan. I've seen them congregate and mob alert for reasons that go beyond self-interest. They are on constant alert during nesting season. They're on alert off season, too, just not dramatically. I have seen them protect rodents you'd never believe they'd care about. Like squirrels. Squirrels are yet another creature most people find obnoxious. Like the blue jay, they can be aggressive at the bird feeder. They're eager to try different acrobatic feats necessary to conquer the feeder challenge. This makes them a pain to manage. It's really hard to figure out a way to protect the feeder and provide cover in case of hawks. Providing that cover for the birds requires placing the bird feeder close to bushes and small trees, which then gives the athletic squirrel that little boost up to conquer the bird feeder. This makes them difficult. But I like difficult. OK, I toss squirrels peanuts,. I know. I still do it because I toss blue jays peanuts and if I toss blue jays peanuts, the squirrels want some, too. On some spring days I've managed to entice a few to take a peanut from my hand. Feeding jays and squirrels at the same time can cause competition, which I do not want, so I toss peanuts to blue jays in a particularly location--closer to the feeder, and to the squirrels in another location--close to the Japanese maple. I toss enough so there's no need to quarrel. I've actually made friends with one squirrel who had no tail. I have no idea why she was missing a tail, only assumed it probably had something to do with determination-- determination not to be eaten by a Red-tailed hawk. Anyway, I liked the tailless squirrel and it liked me. It would walk right up to me. I still miss her. She's now resting in peace. The hawk won. When the tail is gone, there's nothing left to chew off in order to escape, I suppose. So, the squirrels, while annoying, became a part of the yard family. Cooper's hawks are the greatest threat to birds, and are most prevalent around the feeder. But when the squirrels congregate, the Red-tailed hawks visit, too, because a squirrel dinner is like steak for the Red-tailed hawks. A little bit about that screaming first. The blue jay screaming is actually an alert system. Unlike other bird's quick alarms then escapes-- the blue jays coordinate their voices. One stands guard, then screams his warning to another who then conveys his message to the others.. and so on. If the hawk puts prey in imminent danger, the blue jay mob alert begins. This alert is meant to warn their own immediate nesting area, but I also believed they intend to police the entire territory. When I say territory, I don't mean my yard, but perhaps several yards. They flock everywhere, screaming alarms about predators to everyone. One day they mob alerted right by my feeder. My window in my study faces the feeder and I counted at least two dozen blue jays -- all mob alert screaming. A few jays appeared to be looking through my window at me as they screamed. By the time I made it to the back door, blue jays were everywhere. At least three dozen blue jays were up in the white pine, birch, and one large fir. They were hysterical, so hysterical I imagined a Cooper's hawk or Sharpie was eating an offspring. I opened the door expecting to see a horror story. In the yard stood a huge, imperious looking Red-tailed hawk staring at the feeder. Actually, not the feeder, but the tube that covers the feeder stand--which protects it from squirrels and raccoons (see below). I opened the door and the hawk flew away, the blue jays trailing him. I at first didn't realize the hawk was staring at the tube, so I assumed the prey was in the yard or up a tree. I walked around and heard this faint dog whine. As I approached the feeder the dog whine grew louder. It came from inside the tube. There was no dog inside the tube, there was a squirrel, hanging on to the stand for dear life. It had crawled up the tube to hide, then found itself trapped. The hawk knew it couldn't hold on forever and was patiently waiting for his meal. When I knocked on the tube, the squirrel fell down and ran for its life, stopping briefly at the tree to look back and regard me. The yard went quiet. The blue jays were gone. They had all saved one squirrel. OK, this is not too unusual. As I mentioned, mob alerts are common with jays. But in this case, there were literally dozens of blue jays, pulled from every nesting area. I don't think our yard, or even the adjacent yards, have this many blue jays. They were called in. And a few blue jays had looked into my window, screaming at me. The alert was more than a warning to all of their species, or even birds. This huge raptor was no real threat to the birds. He only wanted one thing and one thing only--the squirrel. And these birds wanted to save that one squirrel. Dozens and dozens of of them wanted to save this one squirrel. Why? Why this one squirrel? I wondered if it was one of the squirrels I had fed one day. The only way I could actually identify squirrels was the missing tail, back when the tailless squirrel was alive. I could also distinguish females from the males during mating season. But other than that, I just didn't know. But I bet the blue jays could tell one squirrel from another. Maybe this was one of the squirrels who took peanuts from my hand. This may have marked it as special friend, and so when it looked like it was about to be eaten, they all went on high alert. Or maybe not. Maybe they simply protect anything in their territory. Squirrels were part of their territory. But if they did save this one squirrel because by feeding squirrels when I fed them, I had somehow created this "family." Does this means the blue jays have a certain level of empathy and community loyalty that goes beyond their species? So, when the blue jays scream, I think of that squirrel and realize that scream may be about a huge Red-tailed or broad shouldered hawk, not just a bird eater. They scream quite often because hawks fly over our area often. I wave at hawks when I see them to warn the birds. But what if a huge hawk was accepted by me? OK, cautiously accepted (One cannot completely trust a hawk). What if I befriended a hawk big enough not to be a threat to birds, perhaps one that helps them by chasing away the Cooper's hawk? Would they scream at this hawk? Could they accept a hawk, as long as that hawk agreed never to eat them? That's the next story. First an announcement about my novel, DEAD FIISH and What the Blue Jays Know. It will now be released April 22. Earth Day. Certainly an appropriate day for a novel about environmental activists with talking corvids as characters. OK. Now a few pictures. Then a story. So, what does the picture up above on the right have to do with the bird on the left? And the dogs to the left? The first dog, the fawn bulldog, is Dora. In this picture she is still able to walk in the woods, something she loved to do, but couldn't do well. In my last post, I discussed the difficulty of managing Dora, who eventually was legally blind and deaf, because of her arthritis and tendency to wander. The picture above was her last walk in the woods. Sadly, she deteriorated fast after this picture. That deterioration resulted in constant wandering. Daisy protected her, or at least stayed by her, which gave me comfort. I felt OK when Daisy was in the yard and that was a false sense of security. Because as much as Daisy looked after Dora, she was unreliable. Sometimes she'd bark when Dora went wanderer mode. Sometimes she'd just trot back to the door. So, I still had to be careful when I let them out. When Dora went wanderer mode, she'd walk to this huge white pine near the fence. Beyond this white pine was an incline, a very slight incline, but still enough of a slope to be a problem for a dog with severe arthritis. But if the dog managed this incline, she would reach the fence where she could use it, along with the nose, for guidance. Using the fence as guidance, Dora would wobble around the property, ending up at the shed. Once Dora hit the shed, she was happy because behind the shed was a place with no fence, which meant the pond was there for her. She knew if she could get around that shed, she'd be mere yards from the pond. I have no idea why she wanted to be in that pond. I suspect the pond had a strong smell and it was this smell that pulled at her. When you can't see and can't hear, I suppose you gravitate towards smells because it's the one thing you can do. Or maybe she just wanted to swim, even though she couldn't swim, she could barely walk. The rocks near the pond were slippery and if she fell in, she would have drowned. I would watch her and always run out to retrieve her right when she hit that hill. Sometimes I'd let her reach the fence and watch her walk its periphery. I had a leash but always forgot it, or could not find it when Dora reached the danger zone. I eventually tied the leash to the door, but when I saw her at the fence, or worse, gone, I didn't spend the time untying the leash, I just opened the door and ran out. I know what this makes me look like. I know . It's just that when I am focussed, I forget things. And while I went out with her when I could, she usually stayed out, or wanted to stay out, a long time. I'd go back inside and look out the window. If I ever saw her gone or about to leave, I'd run out, several times forgetting my leash. Running after a rather heavy bulldog with no leash usually means one has to break one's back to get the bulldog home. I have a bad back and there were days it didn't work after either carrying her home, or leaning over, pulling her home, whilst she resisted. Then there was one day I went inside for a moment, quick moment. Truly, it was a breath of a moment. I do not know what happened in that moment, why I went inside, but I came back outside and there was Daisy, looking a bit sheepish. And no Dora. I ran around the yard, the neighbor's yard. No Dora. I don't know why I didn't see her in the neighbor's yard because she was there, probably by a bush or behind a tree. I could hear the blue jays, yelling everywhere. I assumed a hawk was in the area. They were in my trees. They were in the neighbor's trees. I wasn't paying that much attention to anything because I started to panic. I ran down the street thinking she had wobbled off. No dog. As I walked back up the driveway, I saw a flash of fawn in the neighbor's backyard. I could hear the blue jays everywhere. There she was--right by the pond bent over as if she were going to take a big gulp of bacteria infested water, then fall in and drown and die. I yelled. Of course yelling at a deaf dog does no good. She didn't take a gulp. She didn't jump in. She just sniffed and moved towards the water. I started running. When I reached her, I grabbed her by the collar, but of course she didn't want to go anywhere, which meant I had to pull her, which did no good and wasn't really a healthy way to move an arthritic dog. So, I picked her up and carried her home. She was heavy, I have a bad back. I had to rest a few times, but I finally made it to my house. My back was in bad shape for a few days. About four days after this drama, we were cleaning the yard and I noticed this black synthetic strap (see photo above) lying on the ground. There were clips on both ends that indicated it was supposed to be attached to something or was meant to attach one object to another. The strap was very light, as light as a pencil. I could not find anything it was connected to in my yard. We own nothing that required these types of straps. Even our life preservers don't have these straps. I checked the garage, nothing. Shed, nothing. Did it blow in from another property? Then I realized where I found it. It was slightly beyond the white pine near the incline Dora usually wobbled off to when attempting her wandering escape. I studied the strap. I realized if I clipped one end to Dora's collar, I could actually use it as a leash. And a leash would obviously be what one would think I needed if one observed me constantly running out and dragging my dog home, or carrying my dog home. Perhaps one who flew above us all and noticed other people using these lines attached to dogs, walking down the street. One would think, well this woman who feeds us is one of the dumb ones. We need to find her a line. (If you read the book, you can see how this influenced my thinking.) Did the blue jays find this somewhere and drop it on my property right where Dora usually ended up? It was certainly light enough for bird to carry. Did they think I was kind of dumb and they needed to help me out by finding me this leash? Are Corvids that smart? Well, are they? I have no idea. Dora eventually left us, but until she passed on, I used this strap. I walked her around the yard with it, just in case the blue jays gave it to me. What does this blue jay have to do with these bulldogs? Well, of course, they have absolutely nothing in common. For the most part, you'd think birds ignore dogs. They're quite anxious around, say, cats, but dogs do not scare them. It's impossible for a dog to catch a bird unless the bird is injured, so I suspect birds are ambivalent about canines.
But certainly they know our dogs are there. And certainly a smart bird, like a blue jay, understands the relationship between owner and dog. They watch us play, walk the dog, sit outside with the dog. They see the dog go outside. They see the dog come into our house (nest). The picture on the right are my dogs. Well, the brown bulldog on the right, Daisy, is my current dog, the bulldog on the left, Dora, is my former dog, may she rest in peace. Dora lived 14 1/2 years, a long time for an English Bulldog. The average age of this breed is about 9 years. But Dora loved her sister, and I think she went the extra mile in order to be with her. Maybe to be with me, too, but I think mostly to be with her sister. Daisy was not her real sister, only adopted, but Dora kind of raised her and saw her as family. By the time Dora was 13 1/2, she was legally blind and her vet suspected she was mostly deaf. All she had was her nose, so she liked to wander around sniffing things. I had to watch her constantly. If I dropped the leash at the park she ended up wobbling towards the area with strongest smells --usually the pond. At one park centered by a large pond, Dora came close to falling in the water. I also live on a pond, but we have a fence separating pond from yard, so she was safe outside. I still watched her. Daisy went out with her, but Daisy didn't like to poke around the yard. She was young and energetic and liked to play. Once she finished playing, she wanted back in the house. Not Dora. Dora stayed out, wobbling around the yard smelling everything. I would bring Daisy in, let Dora outside, but if I wasn't careful, she'd wander around the fence, into the neighbor's yard. The neighbor had no fence, so if Dora ended up in the neighbor's yard, she was in danger of walking into the pond and drowning. And in fact that almost happened a few times. Anyway, there were quite a few occasions when I looked outside and... no Dora. I panicked and ran outside, always forgetting to bring a leash. I'd run down the drive, around the street, frantically calling her name. Deaf dogs, by the way, will not come when their name is called. I always found her. A few times she smelled her way back home. It was a real struggle dealing with her because of her disabilities, and I made mistakes when distracted. Once, after letting her out in fifteen degree weather, I was distracted by a phone call, then distracted again by another call, then forgot all about her being outside and stepped on my treadmill to run. While running, I noticed blue jays settling on branches in my naked cherry tree. I was listening to music but could tell they were screaming. The tree began to fill with other passerines. Sparrows. Cardinals. Finches. The tree became so filled with birds, I felt like I had fallen into a Hitchcock movie. I turned off my ear buds and noticed the bird noise. The birds were chirping, the blue jays were screaming. At least fifty birds on this small cherry tree were making so much noise, it filled my small room where I keep my treadmill. Several sparrows and finch, and about four blue jays were looking through my window, at me. I thought at first they were looking at their reflection, but it was not a bright day and many definitely appeared to be looking at me. It hit me when I realized the tree was right by the patio. Dora! I ran to the den, and there she was at the patio door. Cold. I brought her inside, covered her with blankets and after a few moments she was fine. I was not. I was a very bad mom. Bad mom. Bad mom. Bad mom. And the worst kind of bad dog mom. A spacey bad dog mom. How could I forget a dog left outside in the cold when the dog was deaf and blind? She never barked, so there was that. I told myself that maybe she wanted to be out in the cold because she didn't bark. But she didn't bark much because she couldn't hear. Self flagellation lasted a while, until I noticed the blanket of quiet that had fallen over the yard. The birds, particularly the jays, had stopped screaming and chirping. Quiet. I opened the patio door, Dora by my legs staring outside at nothing because that is what a blind dog sees, nothing. There were a few quiet birds. Sparrows on feeders. Finches in the white pine. A blue jay on the distant birch. Did the blue jays lead a crowd of birds to the tree to yell at me so I'd remember my dog? Were they aware that Dora was blind and deaf and in danger? Did they notice my frantic appearance when she disappeared, leading them to believe I was very nervous about her? Did they sense I could get distracted? Did they fear I was a spacey bad mom? As Dora aged, her eyes eventually gave out. No more shadows, just darkness. She started eating dirt, bird and dog feces. She became weak. And she wondered off constantly. Even Daisy could not keep her in the yard. A few times, it was obvious the blue jays were keeping an eye on her for me. More on that later. And then the jays brought me a gift. Or maybe I imagined what I found was a gift? That is a possibility. Believe what you want. I think the timing of the object I found, how I found it, suggest it was indeed a gift. That's the next post. In the video below, notice the blue jay in the lower middle of the screen. I call him Picky Pete. He shakes the shells and only takes the heaviest one, or the one with two peanuts not just one. A few others do this too. But Picky Pete is very particular. It's best to start a discussion about bird friendships with a quote from one of our best storytellers. (Because friendships always involve trading stories). “Now there is more to a blue jay than any other animal. He has got more different kinds of feeling. Whatever a blue jay feels he can put into language, and not mere commonplace language, but straight out and out book talk, and there is such a command of language. You never saw a blue jay get stuck for a word. He is a vocabularized geyser. Now you must call a jay a bird, and so he is in a measure, because he wears feathers and don't belong to any church, but otherwise he is just as human nature made him. A bluejay hasn't any more principle than an ex-congressman, and he will steal, deceive and betray four times out of five; and as for the sacredness of an obligation, you cannot scare him in the detail of principle. He talks the best grammar of all the animals. ….A bluejay is human; he has got all a man's faculties and a man's weakness. He likes especially scandal; he knows when he is an ass as well as you do.” Mark Twain-- Morals Lecture, 7/15/1895; also, A Tramp Abroad I think Mark Twain understood the world of corvids because he may have experienced friendship with the bird. So have I. Well, I’ve experienced engaging with them, and I call this engagement friendship. How does one start a friendship with a bird? All friendships begin food. In our human world, we also drink, so usually we eat and drink a little wine or seltzer, someone tells a story, another person tells a story, someone asks questions about the story, the storyteller answers. Then another story is told. And on and on. Friendships in the bird world are not that different. You cannot connect with a bird unless you bring food. And make sure you eat, too. Don’t just feed them, take time out a few times a week in the afternoon and eat with them. Eat the same thing you’re giving to them. That way, they trust you. In the spring, I’ll sit a while, eating shelled, unsalted roasted peanuts. Then I share. I don't have to share water because I live by a pond. But if you don’t live by fresh water, maybe put out a cheap fountain or a large dog bowl filled with fresh, cool water. Then you talk. Make sure your talk is easy, upbeat, friendly. Sure, they don’t understand your language, but they, like all animals, understand energy. And with birds? Not only is the energy of voice important, but also the melody of voice is important. Birds particularly understand energy and melody of voice because they’re musical artists. And, well, they're noisy. No animal makes noise like the bird. They sing. They yell. They chirp. They warn. Some birds sing and wait for another partner far off in the wetlands to answer with the same melody but slightly altered notes. The birding community used to believe only the male birds were noisy, because the male sang to attract females during mating season. Females were not noisy because it was not their job to perform. This theory of a blabbermouth male bird and quiet female bird existed for quite a while, until the early twenty-first century when it was clearly debunked. Even before I read about these theories and eventual debunking, I knew female birds talked. I saw them talk. Gender differentiation is easy with certain bird species, like the cardinals. The female cardinal, with her brown feathers and orange bill, is quite distinct from her bright red male counterpart. Not only have I witnessed the female cardinal singing, I’ve suspected her songs --a unique combination of notes-- are replicated by a return of the same notes from a far-off location in the distant wetlands. She then sings the same notes again and again, and again and again a response returns with a slight, very slight, alteration of melody. It’s obvious she’s talking to a mate or offspring far away. According to Jennifer Ackerman (THE BIRD WAY, a great book) one of the reasons scientists used to assume female birds did very little vocalizations had more to do with who was studying birds than any revelation. It turns out ornithology used to be populated predominately by male scientists who tended to spend more time studying the male bird population. Once this scientific discipline included more women, more knowledge about female birds was collected. Then of course, the iPhone came along, allowing all of us to bear witness to bird activity. And wala! Theories like the quiet female bird were debunked--by female scientists and all of us backyard sophomoric birders. We’re important! It’s very difficult to distinguish the sex of blue jays because their coloring is the same regardless of gender. But during nesting season, I assume the blue jays with dirty chests are females because females sit on the nest way more than men. Female jays are smaller and are not as scream-y as men, but they do screech, chirp, even sing. They particularly make noise when dealing with their very whiney and obnoxious babies. No other baby bird is as obnoxious as the blue jay baby bird. I suppose they start out noisy as practice, because the world of the blue jay is the noisiest world of all birds. Well, at least in my neighborhood, the blue jay is by far the biggest blabbermouth. I have not heard any other bird make the variety of noises the blue jay makes. Blue jays mimic other birds, particularly the hawk. They warn. They sing happy songs. They gurgle. Sometimes, I suspect, they create sounds just for a human nice enough to feed them. Me. But that could be my imagination. So, OK. Birds talk. Blue jays talk a lot. Males talk more, but females also talk. Moving on to friendships. I began introducing myself by eating peanuts outside after I filled the birding trays. I then tossed a few to the jays. At first, I’d toss only one at a time, but eventually I decided handfuls were better. Limiting feeding to one peanut at a time risks food competition. It’s best to toss enough out so all animals don’t feel the need to fight for food. After a while, I decided to see if I could use food to change some bad behavior. We have too many grackles in our area in the spring. They flock the yard and crowd out the feeder and bully birds. There were so many, no way could I ever engage, and I didn’t think they were intelligent enough to truly engage. Furthermore, they were very obnoxious. They bullied birds, filled my yard, hoarded feeders. I clapped them away. However, while I clapped off grackles who came by the dozens, I merely stood up if I witnessed the blue jays behaving like the grackle—crowding out feeders, bullying small birds. I didn’t clap a blue jay away because I thought they were very intelligent, interesting and trainable. I suspected the blue jays would notice that I clapped away grackles but merely stood up if blue jays misbehaved—again, misbehavior being defined as more than one eating at a time on feeder, or bullying sparrows. If I thought they were behaving well, I’d toss lots of peanuts. Eventually, over time, I think blue jays noticed that 1. I never clapped them away and 2. food depended upon their behavior. It took a while, but blue jays are now nicer at the feeder. I never see them bully small birds. During winter, it’s hard to tell whether I’m watching the core family that doesn’t migrate or new migrators. I suspect most are core since I believe only the juveniles and younger birds migrate. (This is controversial among bird behaviorists. Most think only about 20% migrate). But I do think some who join my core group are migrators. If there are migrators, then at least the ones I observe are behaving well, too. Which leads me to wonder if the core crowd warns them. Are they talking to each other? Some of the blue jays even try to help me keep grackles away from the feeder. They also appear to warn squirrels when their great nemesis —the red-tailed hawk—circles above them. This is interesting since squirrels compete with blue jays for acorns and my peanuts etc. Also, squirrels are considered a threat during nesting season. So, I have a theory. I like squirrels. A few of the squirrels—usually young males, rarely female—will walk right up and take a peanut from my hand. I toss peanuts to the blue jays in the yard and feed a few squirrels near me to stave off food competition. The blue jays seem to understand that, while squirrels are very obnoxious creatures, in my yard, they’re OK. But friendships are not just about taking. They're also about giving. Corvids, specifically my blue jays, give back. Yes, they do. I have stories! I have proof! Wait for it. I will be introducing my my new novel by the end of this week when it goes up for preorder. It's quirky and humorous but also tragic and centered on grief. Blue jays talk to the reader intermittently, sharing their observations, hinting at clues about what exactly is going on.
So, why, in a book about activism and environmental and governmental dystopia, would I give voice to birds? Well, it's a long story. Or lots of stories. I feed birds and always have questions, so I'd google for answers. There are so many books and blogs and YouTube videos on birds. It's actually overwhelming, this information. Birding is popular and birding blogs are all over the place. I narrowed down my information sources to keep my sanity. I chose a few blogs I could trust, books that were enlightening. I reviewed one recently. SAVING JEMIMA by Julie Zickefoose, a great blogger and very knowledgable artist and wildlife writer. She particularly understands blue jays. But I didn't just read blogs. I observed. When I had time. My kitchen bay window provides a view of my feeders and their activity is always in front of me every morning during coffee and afternoon when cooking. I tend to watch things and ask what if. It's what I do best. It's why I write fiction because fiction studies the world with all its problems and complexities and interrelationships by asking "What if this happened?" One of my big "what ifs" when I observe nature, particularly birds, has to do with their point of view. As I google my questions then read expert answers, I always ponder, "What if the birds are studying us, too?" How can birds fly over all of us us and not wonder about our interconnections, disconnections, conflicts, social engagements, routines. They observe us retrieve dog excrement, scooping up poop then tying these poop filled bags. What do they all think about that? They watch us travel in these motorized compartments, winding around bizarrely illogical paths. They fly over us protesting--walking down streets together, holding cardboard squares with black symbols scattered over them. When they contemplate man, in bird terms, what conclusions do they draw? Furthermore, I've always thought birds would make excellent characters, because great characters are usually great observers. Great characters insert commentary as a story progresses. Great characters offer up only factual, truthful reality. Great characters, like birds, never lie. Birds live in "fact world." And what better bird to choose as a fact commentator than the highly social, intelligent, witty community organizer--the blue jay. I have always loved Corvids. I've been fascinated by their intelligence and language for years. But, alas, crows don't visit me, so I've never had the opportunity to befriend them. However blue jays--also corvids as you probably know--do visit me. They visit often. When I first put up feeders, my blue jays were pests. Bullying smaller birds. Crowding out feeders. Screeching, squawking around the yard. After a while, I slowly modified their behavior with meal worms and peanuts. They behave now. No more bullying. No more congregating on all feeders. I knew they would learn because as I watched bluejays, I gradually came to understand something quite special about them. Look, I'm not foolish. I do understand that blue jays engage only because you give them food. Period. However, and this took years of observation to realize, blue jays also observe. They observe me in the garden, jogging down the road, trying to walk my bulldog, filling the feeders. They are interested. Do I like squirrels? Do I like my dog? Ho do I treat the birds, how I treat my dogs? (and I have stories about this.) They watch me. So, when I place a few peanuts on the ground only when they do not bully other birds and cease crowding the bird feeder. (this took a while), they realized I didn't like bullying and I didn't want more than one feeding at a time. That's how more peanuts or meal worms are gained. So, now I rarely see bullying or feeder crowding. Not only do the families in my territory no longer bully or crowd the feeder, none of visiting blue jays crowd the feeders. (maybe the babies but the parents eventually teach them). This leads me to wonder if they communicate the protocols to fellow migratory birds or other visitors. Their language is very complex-- the small chirps, dulcet songs, hawk imitations, quick alarms, mob screams etc. Every sound is slightly different and unique to that jay. Each sound conveys different messages. They talk, basically. So perhaps there's certain screech that translates into, "The good stuff is here!" Similar to a child yelling at their buddies on the playground, "MOM FINALLY BOUGHT ICE CREAM!" Sometimes, after the food screams, a half-dozen blue jays arrive, other times, two dozen. When I used to toss meal worms during nesting season to give them added protein, I once counted 51 blue jays in my yard. This number of jays goes beyond the normal family tribe that populates this immediate territory. I wondered if this meant they found this food so amazing, they called in everyone in other family tribes--a dinner party, if you will-- to come join the feast. And this during nesting season when many birds, particularly the cardinals, become quite territorial. And yet here they are feasting with neighbors. What incredible social complexity. I had to stop doing meal worms, however, because it was scary how many blue jays showed up. I switched to peanuts. Please know, I'm not an expert and in no way claim to know animal behavior science. I am a wannabe animal behavior scientist, yes. But not a real one. I observe. I try to engage. That's all I do. So, I will be blogging stories of my observations. I can't help but imagine and of course that will lead to my little takes on their behavior, just like I have takes on ducks and turkeys etc. So, below are some of the neighborhood gang, walking around, gorging on corn, seed droppings, hunting for a peanut. More later. I am so excited to introduce you to Hawthorne-- the hawk who visits me on occasion. I think this is a female but have named her Hawthorne because she is a Hawthorne. I suspect she is female because she's huge and female raptors are bigger than male raptors. Isn't she gorgeous? Look at her! She was after a squirrel and I think I interrupted the hunt. She's not one bit scared of me. Unlike most hawks, she doesn't fly away when I go outside. I always face her, never turn my back, however, because, well, she's a hawk. She is massive. She is healthy. She is bold. She stayed a while then flew off. Later, while I was shoveling, she flew across the pond, her eyes right on mine. (Hawks stare right into your eyes. It's kind of scary, but she knows I'm not scared of her.) I dropped my shovel and spread out my arms, "Hawthorne, you're back!" She landed on a branch near me and once again stared at me. I said, "You're welcome to a squirrel but I cannot witness it. The murder has to occur when I"m gone. OK?" She stared. She knows I'm talking to her and I think she kind of likes it. Anyway, here she is, on my feeder, looking around and at me through the window. (Notice my window pictures. I have markers but they didn't work as well as they should, so I also put angry pictures. It kind of worked better than the markers. Not many bangs now. ) The Migratory Bird Treaty Act (MBTA) has been the foundation of migratory bird protection. It imposes penalties on corporations that do not take into account, as part of its environmental study, the impact of their actions upon migratory birds. The current administration has attempted to strip this act of its vital protections by eliminating penalties for all incidental injury. This means one would only have to prove they did not intend to kill birds. Give us a big fat break! Geez.
We've lost billions of birds and could lose up to 2/3 of our bird population due to global warming. This absurd rule change would of course lead to decisions that do not take into account impacts upon bird population. This is why a judge overruled it, recognizing its illegality and disregard for the spirit of the MBTA. So, now, determined, they're trying again-- in a rushed Final Environmental Impact Statement which minimizes the comment period. Please read this article and call your legislator to offer your support for the Migratory Bird Protection Act, a bill currently being considered which would protect the MBTA from this corrupt intervention. Click on the picture below to read the article. Before I jump into a discussion about blue jays, the stars of my upcoming novel, I'd like to first discuss their brilliant cousin --the great crow. I've posted a link to an interesting article about crows. This link takes you to the article, where you will find a Ted talk link within the document.
Most birders are interested only in rare birds. Or gorgeous birds with their fascinating, lively colors, and dance routines, and perfect nests. Corvids, particularly crows, are so abundant we all take them for granted. They're our scavengers. They are loud. They steal your food at barbecues when you turn your back. They swoop down and grab peanuts you've tossed for squirrels. Some people see a corvid's stubborn resolve as obnoxious--your basic pest. But do they have to be a pest? This behavioralist asks the question--why can't we work with them, allow them to be our friends in nature. They are well equipped to help us because crows, and blue jays for that matter, are easy to train. In fact, they can figure out complex tasks with no help as long as they are motivated. That's what this Ted Talk is about. Click on the picture Yes, Lorene and her babies chased a hawk, one I am familiar with whom I now refer to as Hawthorne. They were eating peacefully-- worms, fallen seeds-- when Lorene suddenly looked up. I noticed her looking up into the sky and trees. Now, turkeys look up in the sky often, so this is not unusual, however, this time her tail feathers became extended. Her largest baby, whom believe is a male because of its size, shook his body, held his wings out and ran with Lorene to the edge of the property. All at once, all of them ran towards a birch in the corner near the pond. What I found interesting about this behavior was the aggression. The turkeys were not running away from a predator, they were running after a predator in the trees. I ran out, snuck around the shed and saw it. Yes, a hawk. Hawthorne. Yep, Hawthorne, our huge female red tail hawk. I've run into her before while looking up into my cedars as blue jays were doing their mob screams. I had thought the predator was way up in the tree and so had stood at the base looking up for a while. I unfortunately had no phone or camera, just wanted to see what was going on. Curious. I saw nothing, so turned to leave, and there she was--this massive raptor. The entire time I'd stood there searching the top of the cedar, Hawthorne had been sitting quietly on a lower branch, about nine feet from my face, staring at me. And when I say staring, I mean staring. There's nothing like a stare from a Hawk nine feet from your face. I stood. She perched. I said, "Well, aren't you gorgeous." She acknowledged my compliment. I could tell she agreed. I would say she's bit on the arrogant side. Anyway, she stared like this a while. Gorgeous lime green eyes. Chestnut, light brown extended head feathers. Large rotund torso-- white with reddish brown streaks. We had a moment. I wondered what she was going to do. Was she mad at me? Was she playing a stare game? Was she curious about me? It got a wee bit scary only because a hawk's eyes are so incredibly intense. Almost evil looking, although I do not think she's evil. She's just your basic serial killing hunter. I felt myself losing her stare game, so I cheated and walked to her side. "You're also a horrifying creature," I said, keeping my eyes on her. She perched another moment, and--probably because I cheated by moving and talking-- turned, leaned over, shot out a poop out and flew off. She didn't appear scared, and while her head feathers were extended, she didn't seem aggressive. I suspect she was telling me this was her territory, I was an invasive species but she would allow me to stay as long as I didn't interrupt her. So, here she was again. And the turkeys were running after her? And she was flying away from them? I assumed the turkeys were not threatened by a raptor anymore because they were bigger. There was no way the hawk, even a big one like this, could grab a turkey this big out of a pack of them. But why chase the hawk? Were they protecting the squirrels and birds? I grabbed my iPhone, but while I saw her up in the tree, I couldn't get a clear shot. She flew to another tree. And the turkeys followed, all staring up at her. That's when I caught the video, first of the turkey's trying to get behind the fence to the tree where Hawthorne was perched. After she flew away, she perched on a nearby tree, turned her head and stared at me again. Some day I will invest in an expensive camera because my iPhone just doesn't capture the beauty of this creature. She truly is one gorgeous bird. I told her once again she was gorgeous. Once again we had a moment. Then she flew off.
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AuthorI like to write about people, animals, dogs. I enjoy ideas, good books about ideas, funny books about ideas, funny people who have ideas, advocates for people who don't have voices to express their ideas, and animals who have ideas we can't understand. Archives
November 2021
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