Uninvited: Man vs. fowl

My husband is in a week-long standoff with a robin who insists on building a nest on the crossbeam of our porch.

We are a bird-friendly family. We don’t put chemicals on our lawn, put out birdseed in the winter, and we are delighted when our bird friends chirp happily from the branches of our crabapple tree out our front window. But even our bird loving has limits. 

Most weeknights, I’m out on the front porch catching up on the day with my husband or daughter. On weekends, it’s my outdoor reading spot, usually with an iced tea or hot coffee in arm’s reach.

Mrs. Robin has been attempting to build a home for her babies right above my reading spot, close to our busy front door. We’re sorry, Mrs. Robin, but you are not invited to our porch party.

I don’t know who is going to win this battle of the wills. While my husband sleeps a solid eight at night (slacker!), Mrs. Robin industriously spends the wee hours shuttling back and forth with twigs and dried grasses in her beak. First thing in the morning, even before coffee, he goes out to see what he already knows is there: a perfectly round base of a nest, inarguably an architectural wonder. Resigned, he doesn’t curse or mutter; I can hear his defeated sigh from the kitchen. We love you, Mrs. Robin, but we promise you, this is not a good place for your family.

We tried opening the door noisily, hoping she would find another spot, but she was not dissuaded. Each morning, my husband gets the ladder and gently dismantles the nest, but the next day, a new one appears. As I write this, an electric leaf blower is leaning against the wall just inside our door. If we see her during the day attempting to build, out comes the leaf blower. Between the noise and the strong gust of air, will Mrs. Robin finally get the hint and find a more suitable spot for her nest? Time will tell. In the meantime, I watch with amusement as a tiny creature the size of the palm of my hand can be thoroughly engaged in this battle of the wills with my husband…and seems to be winning.

Even though there are plenty of trees and bushes on our property, she is hellbent on roosting just beneath the eave of our front porch, where her babies would be sheltered in the most luxurious of accommodations: the solid support beam won’t sway in the wind, and those sweet little birdlings won’t have to endure a single drop of rain until they grow big enough to poke their heads out of the nest and explore the big world. Mrs. Robin is only doing what’s best for the babies; I can’t fault her for that. The fact that she wants to be on our porch is understandable, too. I mean, that’s where I want to be most of the time.

But I’m also reminded of the time I got dive-bombed by an angry mama bird a few springs ago at a local park when, unbeknownst to me, I walked much too close to a nest of babies. The mother bird shrieked a split-second warning before going straight for my head. I felt her sharp claws tangle my hair. She pulled away, fluttered a bit, then dove straight down again to attack my head. If you’ve seen Alfred Hitchcock’s movie, The Birds, you will understand why this little episode scars me to this day. I do not want my peaceful porch to become the sequel to a nature-horror film. I’ll get the best birdseed there is. I’ll buy her a little birdhouse with premium amenities, if that’s what it takes. I love Mrs. Robin and what she stands for (motherhood and spring), but I will not yield my beloved porch.

Unless, of course, we discover eggs in the nest. That will be the game-ender to this battle of wills, because it is hard enough to dismantle the beginnings of a nest; we would never even consider endangering precious blue robin eggs.

So this column will end in a way much like The Birds ends: without much of a conclusion. There is a certain glimmer of hope as Tippi Hedren, in her role as Melanie, is led out of the bird-infested house in Bodega Bay to the safety of the car. She is walking on her own, but she leans heavily on Jessica Tandy, and is bloodied, bandaged, and glassy-eyed. The birds flock on the roof, the porch railing, and around her feet. It’s as if they are escorting her out, threatening to attack if there is any sudden movement. The film leaves the impression that ultimately, the birds have won. 

I don’t expect our porch scene will become quite as violent. I do, however, have this funny feeling that the battle of wills between man and fowl will end in much the same sentiment. If so, we will concede our defeat. We will graciously retire to the back porch.

---

---