The birds are back ... like it or not

A few days ago, a great flock of birds took flight directly over my windshield. The unsettling cacophony of flapping wings reminded me that spring is here. And the birds are out there.

Lurking. Waiting.

I know I should appreciate birds as a marvel of nature, but the truth is, I have a very mixed opinion of the entire avian kingdom.

Starting with the positive: I have always loved ducks. When I was a kid, we had a boat on Lake Coeur d’Alene, and we kept it in a small, anonymous marina on 11th Street. I remember feeding baby ducks there; Little Diana, safe in Grandpa’s arms, gazing in wonder at my winged compatriots. Chubby, incompetent, waddling fuzz balls; the toddlers of the natural world.

My family must have a predisposition to favor waterfowl, as all that time on the boat led my father to acquire a benign, but powerful, preoccupation with loons. Every time he spotted one, he’d shout with such gusto that everyone present would jump three feet into the air. His excitement level was that of a man who spotted a unicorn, riding the Loch Ness Monster. IN SPACE. This excitement would cease to be contagious quite rapidly, but for him the pleasure never seemed to fade.

I’ll also never forget the mountain blue jay that used to frequent our back porch. He was a regal, sophisticated creature; bigger than our cat and twice as handsome. Quite frankly, he was an intimidating guy, and I was grateful for the sliding glass partition that separated us. He was not a bird you would want to mess with, and even the cat knew; she never ventured out when he was around, opting to hiss at him instead from beneath our dining room table.

But some birds…some birds have left behind a darker legacy.

When I was in preschool, we had a bright, happy, canary-yellow parakeet, aptly named “Sunny.” Sunny was everything a bird should be! Vibrant, sociable, energetic.

Doomed.

Sunny loved to soar though our house; our chubby canine lumbering after him, low to the ground and always several paces behind. The idea of her catching him was laughable.

Until, of course, she did.

My big sister burst into hysterics, and flung herself dramatically onto her bed, inconsolable. Not understanding the gravity of the situation, I followed suit. We mourned, side by side, great wails of grief emanating from our throats; one genuine; one an admiring imitation.

Sunny was replaced by a blue and gray parakeet named Stormy, who was, to be blunt, a jerk. He snapped at small fingers, and generally refused to leave his cage. When he could be persuaded to venture out, Stormy would prove himself to be flight-challenged. He was either visually impaired or a moron, because he inevitably careened into walls mid-flight.

Eventually Stormy was rehomed.

To add insult to my growing emotional injuries, a seagull once pooped on me at Wild Waters. He flew right over my head and let loose, presumably with deliberate malice. I cleaned myself off in the pool, so if you want to get technical, everyone at Wild Waters got contaminated with seagull excrement that day. (Because I was 7!)

I admire birds from afar, but I don’t let them get too close, emotionally or physically. The best of them are tragedies waiting to happen, and the rest are irritable grouches, or inconsiderate poop monsters.

Except for ducks and that one single Blue Jay. If you see that guy, tell him I said hi.

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Diana Braskich is a resident of Coeur d’Alene.