Sweet

The weekend weather was nice, but we continue to be left longing for a thunderstorm – we need rain in south central Wisconsin. After my Saturday morning bike ride, I relaxed with a book on our patio, remaining somewhat cognizant of whatever birds were visiting our feeders or flying over. My thoughts began to drift. I got to thinking about a recent blog post. A few days ago I wrote about Chipping Sparrow behavior and used the word “sweet” when describing contrasting aspects of their natural behavior. I received an anonymous comment suggesting, somewhat critically, that this was wishful thinking on my behalf. As a rule, I won't publish criticism that is sent anonymously to me.

So, why would I choose the word “sweet” when describing a bird or bird behavior? In various contexts, I've heard other birders, in the presence of everything from a hummingbird to a raptor; attribute to them a quality of sweetness. When sharing and describing a birding experience, there is no shortage of adjectives that that can be attributed to wishful thinking. Are birders guilty of anthropomorphizing bird characteristics and behavior? Well, yeah. It happens all the time and it's something I believe is inherent to the joy of bird watching - at least the way I do it. Well, I thought it was obvious that the blog post in question was not meant to be a scientific treatise on Chipping Sparrow behavior.

Wishful thinking... Eventually, to have breadth of knowledge of birds means advancing one's understanding of their realm: where, when, how and why, and this includes death. Multi-millions of birds perish every migration. Many species are declining annually. Every time I go biking I see dozens of dead birds squashed along the highway: Gray Catbirds, American Robins, Indigo Buntings, Savannah Sparrows, Horned Larks, American Kestrels, etc. That I can identify birds means I can't so readily write off every flattened corpse as a House Sparrow or European Starling. (But why should that matter?) I'm aware of the birds that some rehabbers take in each year and some of the inhumane ways in which they've met injury or demise. There is no shortage of this kind of material - I could fill my blog with it daily. As some readers know, I will on occasion relay this kind of depressing news.

I've written about the interiority of what it might be like to experience the world through the eyes and mind of a bird. How sentient are birds? I love what Voltaire said, not because it's necessarily true, but because sometimes I want it to be true:

"People must have renounced, it seems to me, all natural intelligence to dare to advance that animals are but animated machines. It appears to me, besides, that [such people] can never have observed with attention the character of animals, not to have distinguished among them the different voices of need, of suffering, of joy, of pain, of love, of anger, and of all their affections. It would be very strange that they should express so well what they could not feel."

A few weeks ago when I was looking for information about a wounded Peregrine Falcon, Don Gibson at REGI told me a remarkable story about a Sandhill Crane they've had at their center for five years. I don't know the exact circumstances, but Don told me the crane lost its eyes (not just its eyesight) to sprayed pesticides. It has no eyes. Incredibly, this crane is used by REGI to teach orphaned juvenile Sandhill Cranes how to hunt for food. Don said the blind crane strikes just as fast and accurately as any normal crane with sight. This crane without eyes, side by side with a young orphaned crane looking on, catches and shares its food.

I don't know whether the following is true, but I once heard a story about an injured tern struggling on the ground. Eventually, two of its nestmates come to its aid, each taking a wing in its beak and flying it out of danger. It can't be true, can it?

Remarkable. Amazing. Incredible. Sweet.

Becky normally waters the flowers along the outside of our house, but if she leaves the task to me in her absence, I'll notice the birds reacting to me as I do the job. One morning as I unraveled the garden hose, I noticed a female American Robin searching frantically all around the hose container and even underneath it. At first, since the container is a little leaky, I thought she was going after water. But why not use the birdbath? Watching more closely I realized she was snatching up earwigs that had fallen to the concrete from the unraveling of the hose. Clever! When did she figure this out? Now her behavior has evolved into a morning ritual. As part of my bird feeder chores, I collect around a dozen earwigs and place them in a tin can. When I tap the can on the concrete, the robin comes flying in and perches on the roof and waits. I release the earwigs on the concrete, take several steps back and in she comes, collects them in her bill, and rushes them to her young at her nest on the side of our house. She's not piggy about it and resumes looking for other sources food the moment I step back inside. I can't help but feel some sort of connection with this particular robin, the way she stares at me before I release the earwigs. It's like, “Come on, bub, I got mouths to stuff, alright?” She's got to be fast because the earwigs quickly locate cracks and crevices to hide in. The whole thing is hilarious, but also so sweet it brings a smile to my face every time.

I'm her friend. She's looking for me, right? No. That's wishful thinking. All I have to do is take one step toward her while she's grabbing the earwigs and she'll fly off and wait until I've stepped away again. Somewhere along the line this summer, though originally unnoticed by me, a behavior was systematically reinforced when our flowers were watered. That it's been so dry means our flowers have been watered most mornings. There's the sound of either of us opening the door to the patio, unraveling the hose and positive reinforcement in the form of food for her young.

There's a part of me that wants stuff like this to be true. However, the empiricist in me chalks it up to pure instinct and that's probably the way of it. But look, to be my usual cynical self, as the sun runs out of energy, in a few billion years it will eventually expand and extinguish all life on earth. If I think a Chipping Sparrow is sweet and say so, some will scoff. Others are affirmed when studies show humans aren't the only toolmakers or can experience sorrow over loss. But this is doublethink, isn't it? For many of us, this convenience in giving human attributes to animals ends as soon as we visit the grocery store deli.

American Robin © 2007 Mike McDowell