Cardinal

Episode I – No seeds in the feeder

There was no doubt this was the same bird. Such a brilliant red, a perfectly round and, rather large for a cardinal, precisely feathered body. Perfectly coiffed, not a feather out of place, his crest neatly and evenly spiked. Mr. Cardinal rhythmically hopped first onto the rungs of the feeder. For a few seconds, he twisted his head side to side staring directly at the tray with each eye independently. He determined the feeder absolutely, abjectly empty. Because it was. It’s been empty for two or three years. When the last bag of seed was gone, I quit restocking it. I’ve bought no more because squirrels, or a particular squirrel, visited and decimated the supply – faster than I could stock it. Searching for larger seeds like sunflower seed, the greedy booger scattered everything not sunflower onto the ground.

Entering a contest of wills with a deranged squirrel is a no-win, a never-win proposition. ‘Deranged’ may be redundant. All squirrels are deranged. Watching one any longer than ten minutes makes that obvious. A squirrel’s overriding purpose in life is to annoy humans. A human can shoo squirrels away, but in the end can only endure. Squirrels have an advantage. Irking humans is all they have to do. They do it well. Humans have other distractions precluding full-time squirrel-chasing. Knowing refilling the bird feeder would never benefit birds, I simply quit trying to ‘outsmart’ squirrels. That feeder has been, remains, empty since I quit filling it those few years ago. As it was during Mr. Cardinal’s first visit when we last chatted on the telephone.

This trip, Mr. Cardinal, discovering the feeder still empty, in one amazing display of avian gymnastics – one adroit hop-flit, without flapping a wing – covered the eight feet from the feeder to a branch on the dogwood squarely in front of my office window. That put him two feet or less from the window, eye-to-eye with me. His beady little round, black eyes looked directly into mine. At least it seemed so to me. Moreover, it seemed he looked through my office window, directly at me, or directly to where I sat. From the first, not prepared to guess if he looked eye-to-eye at me or simply admired his reflection in the window, I’m inclined to just go for the eye-to-eye explanation. Perched there, and hardly once glancing anywhere but straight into, or through the window, he twisted his head again side-to-side. His body-language suggested displeasure there was yet no seed in the feeder. As if he knew where responsibility for stocking the feeder lay.

Mr. Cardinal gave me fifteen, perhaps twenty seconds of this unrelenting treatment before looking, it appeared to me, back to the feeder eight feet away. Satisfied the feeder remained empty, he returned his stare to me, or his reflection. He repeated first his-eye-to-my-eye glare, then reinspection of the feeder two or three times. Methodically. I felt each time he looked at the window, his intent was to make sure he had my attention. He did. Then Mr. Cardinal flipped his wings quickly open and held them open briefly before tucking them smoothly back against his sides. Not a balancing maneuver, it was the intentional threat-challenge pose of a mockingbird’s characteristic territorial ritual. A mockingbird’s maneuver so exaggerated, you think the bird on some hallucinogen or suffering an affliction of the brain. There was no sense of hallucination or mental disease watching Mr. Cardinal’s presentation. Then, and almost suddenly as if off to answer a call back to the Cardinal Inn, Mr. Cardinal, satisfied his message was clear, flew off to give me opportunity to correct my oversight.

Episode II – Suspicions confirmed

Ten or twenty minutes later Mr. Cardinal returned to the feeder. Thirty minutes at the outside. On arrival, he repeated a quick but thorough feeder inspection. It didn’t take long to see it empty as before. There are no degrees of ‘empty.’ Empty is just empty. With no change in the seed situation, Mr. Cardinal hop-jumped to the dogwood branch by my office window. With him again directly in front of me, I was convinced that eye-to-eye contact was exactly that. He was not enamored with the handsome cardinal staring back at him from the window. If that were so, I’d have expected him to challenge this other bird. He did not. He did appropriately chastise me two or three times, with interspersed inspections of the still-empty feeder from his before-the-window dogwood branch. His routine finished, Mr. Cardinal again left me to consider his message.

It was a long afternoon of work at my desk. Several hours. It ran on into early evening and threatening dusk. Mr. Cardinal, obviously patient, or at least persistent, continued his routine every fifteen to thirty minutes. All through the afternoon and into early evening. More than once I considered breaking-down and restocking the feeder, fair payment for pleasurable moments watching cardinals, chickadees, nuthatches, titmouses, and other species cavort. It would also be maddeningly frustrating to again do battle with crazed squirrels. I renewed my resolve of two or so years ago – no more seed.

During one visit in late afternoon, near the end of this, I noticed Mr. Cardinal was not the only visitor to the dogwood. It went like this: my eye was caught first by Mr. Cardinal, his size as described, large for a cardinal, caused more movement than a breeze gently shaking dogwood branches. Maybe more emphasized than times before, that movement took my attention from work. Confirming the interruption was Mr. Cardinal, I turned my attention back to work, when a larger, gray shape appeared and moved herky-jerky down the dogwood trunk. This was the devil incarnate, an insidious, get-the-hell-outta-my-way squirrel. Mr. Squirrel had apparently seen Mr. Cardinal checking and re-checking the feeder regularly and assumed charitable re-stocking in-progress. Despicable, obnoxious, nasty Mr. Squirrel was there to get his fill. No, he was there to get it all, in the process laying waste to what did not satisfy his wants, and finding free eats, laying claim to this new and convenient territory.

The empty feeder testament to my run-ins with squirrels before, I knew what to expect. Not necessarily this particular squirrel, mind you, because they all look detestably alike. It’s difficult at first to tell individual squirrels one from another, but they are dependably the same by nature. Spending an hour with one of the miserable creatures, one that has chosen your yard and gardens to homestead, you learn its features, mannerisms, and particular style of destruction. Squirrels were put here by the devil. Or maybe the devil couldn’t handle them and had no choice but to turn them loose on the world. Experience tells me that usually only one squirrel will frequent an area. Territorial, they rule by intimidation. Sure, in spring they pair-up, but I’ve never seen two work together laying waste to a feeder or un-planting eggplant seedlings. Those are solitary exploits, accomplished with inescapable relish.

Squirrel togetherness is reserved for chasing each other mindlessly up and down trees, leapfrogging across lawns, circus high-wire-walking power lines, and tearing through gardens in the mating dance. The dance itself is repulsive, resulting in a new generation of unbridled evil. Squirrels are drab, black-gray-brown, ratty-looking, thieving, messy, useless abominations of absolutely no value. Their herky-jerky motions up and down tree trunks and back and forth along tree branches, power lines, fence tops, streets, sidewalks and rooftops are not entertaining, not amusing. For their wastrel thievery and wanton destruction, even the seismic belly-dance, undulating flit of their tails not graceful or cute. They’re not watchable without experiencing a simmering boil that ultimately becomes a ‘grab something golf ball sized to hurl at the miserable bastard,’ flat-out seething cauldron of hatred.

Episode III – Is there any solution?

Squirrels are ulcers personified, without a single redeeming quality. While not their only loathsome habit, ravaging feeders is detestable and primarily the reason I excused neglecting my feeder-stocking duties. They are wantonly greedy bastards, banging around picking out sunflower seeds and spilling the rest until a feeder is empty or darkness falls. Sunup to sundown, a squirrel keeps all but falcons and hawks and mountain lion-sized feral cats at bay. For all of that, I justify neglecting the feeder the last few years, to avoid encouraging a squirrel to consider my yard desirable real estate. A Mr. Squirrel in residence defeats the purpose of a bird feeder. My feeder was empty, but memory made it clear what would happen if the feeder were restocked, why Mr. Squirrel was here: free eats and an invitation to other destruction, or in squirrel-speak, entertainment.

…

There is, I have found to-date, only one truly effective way to handle a squirrel infestation. One squirrel is an infestation, I remind you. That only way is – murder.

IV – Possibilities ruled-out

Small-caliber handguns and rifles and pellet guns are out of the question for legal considerations in the city, in the suburbs, and in liberal Democrat rural areas. Even if they were not illegal, they present a danger, possibility of harm I am unwilling to risk. In the city too, neighbors generally take a dim view of an old coot with a pellet gun pot-shotting any animal. That rather rules-out shooting the damned things with a twenty-two or a powerful CO2 pellet gun. Nothing to do with the NRA, or Greenpeace, or ASPCA, or ACLU, or FDIC, just common sense. Rule out firearms.

Slingshots would be workable and are easier to covertly use than a firearm. Neighbors and casual passersby must be pretty sharp to spot a slingshot. Slingshots have at least the power to stun a squirrel. Um, yes, for this I have empirical evidence. It is, however, more difficult to control an errant slingshot projectile than a pistol or rifle shot. What I mean is, a slingshot requires more ‘safe area’ around the intended trajectory. A ball bearing BB of stun-size, hitting a large branch will carom and find another something to assault, usually several times, whereas a bullet or pellet usually imbeds itself hitting anything of substantial size. A slingshot is more difficult to aim, unless you’ve invested a lot of time practicing. Novice slingshot attempts are almost the same as, as ineffective as, and as difficult as hurling bowling balls overhand. Maybe after months of practice, still as ineffective as attempts with golf balls. Sling-shotting a good-sized ball bearing at one of the devils and missing, car windows, your neighbors’ picture windows, peeing dogs, and children on bicycles or skateboards will, given dumb luck, become backstops. Not good. Even an irascible curmudgeon understands that. Rule out slingshots.

Live traps do not work. Squirrels are smart enough to avoid live-traps. Anything assuredly the spawn of the devil is going to be smart enough to avoid a trap. And they do. Again, I can offer empirical evidence. More than once I have watched squirrels rolling in the grass holding their sides and heard them roaring with laughter that anyone would think they could capture them with a trap. I’ve tried quality nuts of every native and exotic type as bait. While squirrels may want to get at the bait, they do not, and what you end up with is a consolation prize chipmunk. Ineffective and embarrassing, live-traps are not the way to go. To boot, if by some lapse of squirrel-mindedness, one did get snookered into a live trap, or you have a confused and spastic but well-fed chipmunk in your possession, you then must toss the trap into the back of your truck and drive to a remote wood to release these savages. That seems an inappropriate expense for chipmunks, and ineffective for squirrels, the intended quarry. Further, while a chipmunk – confined generally to low-lying haunts does not understand geography – and will be unable to navigate from the woods back to the subdivision, not so squirrels. For relocation to work with squirrels, you need to take them three states away. I have not tried this, but listen: anything closer, the grubby monsters with their bounding leaps and as-the-crow-flies navigation systems will beat you back to your yard and be busily at work on whatever you interrupted. Rule out live-traps.

Poison, I suppose, is an option. Something doesn’t sit well with me considering that plan. You can argue shades of degree. The end result is inescapable. I mean, dead is dead. I cannot come to terms with the possibility that poison might cause prolonged suffering. Even to a squirrel. You might question the humanity of a pellet gun or a slingshot. I offer that a handgun is immediately final. A slingshot resulting in a stunned beast delays the end only as long as it takes to deploy the flat edge of a spade, during which time, the animal will be pleasantly dreaming of feeder plunder, not feeling any pain. Not so poison. Somewhere in the back of my mind there is also the thought that the time and labor required to plant poison out of the reach of unintended animals and children would be tremendous and unrewarded in the end because the devil’s spawn would simply recognize and avoid it. Poison would probably mean more squirrel laughter than live traps, is probably ineffective, and certainly presents too much risk. I don’t think I can bear that. Rule out poison.

V – Until recently, it wasn’t an issue

Natural controls exist. Until more houses were built here in the neighborhood, when undeveloped lots were scattered here and there, several hawks and at least one beautiful falcon kept the area mostly squirrel-free. And chipmunk free, and mouse free. There are few empty lots here anymore, the human population questionably allowed to explode. It is understandable that now it is tougher to navigate airspace around and between houses, making airborne squirrel hunting something of a hazardous vocation. It has been six years since a hawk last sat on the railing of my front porch waiting for breakfast to arrive. I miss the hawks for their effectiveness and the falcon for its sheer grace and beauty. I miss them both for the relatively vermin-free habitat they engendered.

Foxes? Yes, we had foxes for a while. Even before all the lots were developed, the city-bred folk here were all up in arms over the presence of foxes. I suspect they were more concerned that one female with a case of mange offended neighborhood standards for posh and prestige than they were worried over any threat to little Barky in the backyard. They demanded Animal Control step in. Which they did, and one or two foxes, who bothered no one, by the way, were captured and taken, I suppose, to Wyoming. This resulted in now-safe city-folk throwing block parties in celebration of restored safety and decorum. I never had a fox pillage my bird feeder. Never had a fox dig up my tomatoes and eggplant and tulips and pineapple sage. Never had a fox chew the edges of an ornamental plastic statue just for fun. Never had a fox stand beyond arm’s reach and scold me for just being there.

It is undeniably obvious to me that foxes behave better than squirrels and my city-bred, wannabe-tree-hugger neighbors are misguided idiots. What they instead encouraged was an imbalance in the natural order, upsetting the natural predator-prey balance which resulted in far larger populations of genuinely undesirable species in the neighborhood. We have no foxes, but we have instead an abundance, a super-abundance, of rabbits, chipmunks, and yes, squirrels. I could suggest humans as an undesirable species, but will not, yet, as I cannot devise a way to generally discredit the human species while myself remaining not undesirable.

One or two cats, great hunters, have been into and out of the neighborhood. They used to regularly patrol all the yards. You would see them pop into storm sewers after mice. On occasion, I’ve happily watched these cats at work, reducing the chipmunk, rabbit, and mouse populations. I’ve seen them emerge from a storm drain, some wiggly, brown creature limp or in its last throes clasped in their jaws. I’ve seen cats successfully leap from a bush to nail a rabbit, no mean feat. Sure, once in a while a cat nabs a careless bird. That is, despite my natural-order opponents’ contrary arguments, a good example of that ‘natural order.’ Now, I grant that I’ve never seen a cat take down a squirrel but I’m willing to bet, given the size and fearlessness of these cats, a squirrel would consider a contest with one of them at best an even-up affair, probably best avoided. If the cats were still patrolling, squirrels would make book for a cat-less part of town. Maybe even to the large woods a quarter mile from the last house in the subdivision.

Sadly, there hasn’t been a visit by one of these feral hunters in almost as many years as there have been no-shows by the airborne corps. What is at play here is that cats are not foxes. You can’t get close to them. If they see you, or yes, even sense you watching, they disappear into the shrubbery like wisps of lake steam disappearing after the sun is full-up. You can’t, then, determine their coats with or without mange. Assumed mange-less, they are cats, therefore loveable, and poor things, so starved they are hunting birds.

“Let’s feed them, Samantha.” With bountiful free eats, why would anyone, certainly any cat, much smarter than most humans I know, waste time working for dinner? Of late, since two or three kind, caring, humane, helpful people in the neighborhood regularly put out cat food, why, if you are a cat, would you bother to hunt mice, rabbits, squirrels, or birds? Tuna or chicken or horsemeat beats stringy, furry, feathery wild game any time. Sacrificing ‘feral’ freedom? Nah, feign domestication during daylight; you still have the whole night to prowl alleys and storm drains.

Adopting a cat is pretty much out of the question. The idea would be to train it to hunt fearlessly. A good mouser doesn’t stop at mice. Any interloping edible, any moving creature that looks to be fun to bat-about until it falls dead of exhaustion, would be fair game. If I got a cat, it would take a while to train it to go after squirrels. If that can even be done. What do you do to convince a cat to go after a squirrel? “Sic’m Rebus!”?

Given a cat’s contrariness, a better approach might be to shoo my trainee cat away when a squirrel showed, you know, reverse psychology. Iffy proposition. You do not train cats. The cat you get either is a great, fearless hunter or it is not. While I don’t know the hunter/non-hunter ratio, I’m guessing it’s not in my favor. Not that any anti-squirrel cat would have to be successful. It is only necessary he or she regularly irritate neighborhood squirrels. Maybe the mere presence of a cat more-or-less permanently working the yard would be enough to deter tree rats. After serious consideration, I’ve ruled out buying or adopting cats trying to acquire a hunter. Acquiring six essentially pacifist cats, then required to feed them is unsuitable on multiple levels. Then if cat number seven, Rebus, is gloriously effective and happily eliminates and/or discourages local squirrels, I’d then be feeding seven cats. Nope.

Mechanical intervention to protect against Mr. Squirrel? Rube Goldberg-ish ideas for stringing a hot wire to the feeder or better yet to the dogwood tree were quickly dismissed. Electricity? Not my strong suit. Probably have an issue with the ground. Electrocute myself. Oh, wait, the old standard farmer’s weed-cutter electric fence? Probably not. Pass.

Animal populations here in the subdivision are out of balance. There are no cats, or they are dining on the dole. Foxes are not welcome by decree of the Homeowners’ Association, through the efforts of Animal Control at Mindy’s behest. Hawks still live in the taller neighborhood trees, but they hunt the adjacent farmlands, not our concrete canyons. Dogs, thankfully because of reasonably well-followed leash laws, are not part of the ecology. Lacking challenges, mouse, chipmunk, rabbit and squirrel populations have run amok. Lacking natural predators, vermin flourish. This, I maintain, is not the natural order. Left to natural devices, predator-prey populations would stabilize. Squirrels, I guarantee, would find themselves more difficult targets in the thick woods and head there instead of staying in the relatively wide-open pastures of suburbia.

Again, I won’t venture so far as to include humans in the list of species out-of-balance, out-of-control. Yet.

VI – There might be a way…

Admittedly, I live in a disturbed ecosystem. So far as I know none of the pests I deal with are venomous. They are nonetheless problematic, and I try not to exacerbate the imbalance. However, there I was, watching Mr. Cardinal, His Rotundness, and Mr. Squirrel, Devil Incarnate, through my office window. When His Rotundness, HR, left the feeder to perch directly in front of my window and chastise, Devil Incarnate, DI, leaped nimbly from the tree trunk, where he’d hung, head-down by his hind legs, to the feeder.

I’ll grant that that was entertaining, because DI misjudged his first attempt, glanced off the glass, and skittered ingloriously into the hedge beneath the feeder alongside the porch stair railing. True to squirrel character, he immediately squirreled back up the dogwood, and leaped sideways, from a heads-up position this time, deftly and accurately landing on a feeder perch rail. He’d not considered that the perches were metal and afforded his claws no penetration. He immediately fell again ingloriously to the ground.

There were sunflower seeds at stake. DI took another shot at it. On his third leap, he managed the distance correctly and wrapped his claws around the perch instead of trying to maintain his grip by piercing the perch’s bark. Persevering but obviously dumber than HR, it took several trips completely around the feeder, precariously balanced on the perch rail segments, for DI to see there were no sunflower seeds to be filched. His circumnavigation was difficult because his pudgy body pushed his center-of-balance away from the feeder’s side and demanded considerable effort on his part to stay mounted. It occurred to me he considered HR crazy to continue coming back to an empty feeder or thought HR a pig for eating all the seed.

This bored HR and he left to whatever it was that occupied his non-feeder facetime. I watched DI return to the dogwood crotch. He eyed the feeder. Several times he leaned, hunched down and seemingly coiled, ready to leap to the feeder. He didn’t. After a few minutes, he squirreled up the dogwood, leaped onto the roof, then disappeared. I returned to work.

…

Any more work was pretty-much out of the question because something about this most recent HR visit, the attitude and antics of DI, and the tiniest understanding of these two creatures – one a welcome, or at least interesting and pleasant animal, the other a vile and insidious beast – threw my thoughts into overdrive considering something not at all work-related.

I enjoyed eighteen minutes of mindless thought, staring blankly through the window in the general direction of the dogwood, past that to the feeder, and past that to the porch railing, before HR showed up to inspect then silently chastise. He landed immediately on the feeder. As HR took five seconds to determine the feeder empty, DI appeared from the roof back into the dogwood high up and skittered down to the level of the feeder where he froze all but his spastic tail. HR leaped, I still am not certain how he accomplished that, but he did, to the dogwood branch near the window at my eye level. There was a blur of brown fur as DI squirrelled quickly higher up the dogwood, almost out of sight.

A plan started to take shape. A plan that didn’t require murder. I began to implement that evening, smoothing-out the rough edges as I went along.

VII – To execute the plan

First, I went to Muscles-R-Us, directly to the shelves stocked with all the buff-up, get-a-bod, almost-steroid (wink, wink) supplements. I bought a promising-looking bottle predicated solely on its ingredients overleaf suggesting skull-and-crossbones. Not interested in sissy-stuff. You know, not the chemicals Mr. Neighborhood used to fluff-up his eyelashes. More the kind Mr. Gold-Chain-Necklace or Bulk Biggy used after swallowing their appetizer vitamin and supplement chemicals. Serious muscle builder, sheer bulk producing, meanness-enhancing chemicals. Mega-Muscle strength and stamina-builder, guaranteed to increase muscle profile and power and improve competitive dexterity and determination. One green bottle, powder form, about the size of a quart canning jar. Could have taken a second for thirty percent off, but that suggested confidence in my plan that I did not have.

Next, I went to Discount Wally’s, the Lawn-and-Garden, Hobby-Home-Repair, and Pet-Supplies Department to pick up a bag of birdseed.

…

It seems a lot has changed since I last bought birdseed. What little old Widow Epstein is going to buy birdseed in a fifty-pound bag? Even if she is not the widow Epstein but has a Mr. Howie Epstein to grunt fifty pounds of seed from the Lawn-and-Garden, Home-Hobby-Repair, and Pet-Supplies Department shopping trolley into the trunk of the Buick, how is she going to parcel that seed into three- or five-pound allotments to refill the feeder outside her kitchen window? Howie is probably going to leave the bag in the trunk of the Buick instead of lifting it a second time. Right, the Epsteins probably go for a five-pound bag at most.

Organic Sunflower seeds. Non-GMO Sunflower seeds. Fat-free Sunflower seeds. Black Oil Sunflower seeds. Oil-free Sunflower seeds. Seed-free Sunflower seeds. Made-in-USA Sunflower seeds. Imported Sunflower seeds. Fair-trade Sunflower seeds. We need all these choices? It would seem so.

I opted for twenty pounds of Nature’s Organix Magic Black Oil Sunflower, non-GMO, lo-fat, gluten-free, weed-free mix with sundry (cheap, but I assumed edible) other seeds. In the Ezy-pour, resealable, poly-free plastic, recyclable bag. I could have saved a bundle getting the fifty-pound eco-friendly, Bird-Master bag with the free bird-identification guide inside, but again, my embryonic plan still felt half-insane.

…

At home, in secret, in the garage with the door closed, I emptied my bag of seed into a soil sifting-box with holes just the right size to let all except the Black Oil Sunflower seeds pass through into the wheelbarrow beneath it. Done with that, I spread the wheelbarrow contents around evenly. Using a spray bottle borrowed from the kitchen filled with vegetable oil, I spritzed the thinnest mist onto the not-sunflower seeds. I stirred afterward to distribute the smallest trace of oil on as many of the seeds as possible.

Opening my Mega-Muscle, Registered (TM), I noticed a further label disclaimer: “Do not exceed recommended dose or frequency; discontinue use if you experience muscle spasms or cramps, nausea, rash, loss of hearing, nervousness, x-ray vision, abnormal aggressive tendencies, hallucinations, unusual hair growth, or unexplained urges to leap tall buildings.” With a warning like that, it had to be potent stuff. Good choice. I went to the medicine cabinet for a pair of latex gloves to protect myself from developing over-muscled, hairy, aggressive fingers. Tearing away the “do not use if seal is broken” cover, I sprinkled the contents around the top layer of the wheelbarrow’s seeds. Then with gloved-hands, tossed and folded to distribute the off-green and past-best-by-date-egg smelling powder to coat as many seeds as possible.

Satisfied more stirring wouldn’t give any better coating, I left the treated seeds to sit in the wheelbarrow overnight to absorb the Mega-Muscle and dry. The next morning, shortly before dawn, I poured the seeds, minus the Black Oil Sunflower seeds, back into the ‘resealable bag.’ The Black Oil Sunflower seeds I dumped into an old coffee can. I figured if my plan did not work, there was no need to make seed piracy any more fruitful for Devil Incarnate than necessary.

VIII – Ironing out the fine points

I decided that morning to put work at my desk off until I tested my plan. After a quick bowl of oatmeal, I carried my fortified seeds in the resealable plastic bag and the coffee can full of culled Black Oil Sunflower seeds outside. As the sun came over the mountain, lighting my office window, I placed the bag and coffee can on the walk at the edge of the small flower bed home to the dogwood, feeder, hedge, and Monkey Grass. Adjourning to my office, I waited for the arrival of His Rotundness to start his alternate feeder checking and sitting at my window alerting me to the need for seed.

Within minutes, His Rotundness appeared, inspected the feeder and then resumed his dogwood-by-the-window routine. I went outside. HR flew away. Devil Incarnate did not show. I went back into my office. Quickly, HR returned, stopped by the feeder and resumed his dogwood perch. I went outside. HR left. I put a few seasoned, un-sunflower seeds into the feeder tray and returned to my office. HR returned before I settled my butt into my chair. He made quick work of the few seeds and when those were gone, flitted to his dogwood branch and my window. I went outside. HR left. I dribbled a few more seeds into the feeder and returned to my office.

Two cardinals arrived again before my butt settled nicely into my chair. HR and a gorgeous female, half his size. HR’s lady friend was flawlessly cocoa brown accented by a perfectly bright orange beak, with a red-tipped crest and streaks of red and black on the edges of her wings and tail. Both, cardinals, you know, with the raccoon-style black mask, hers less prominent and not as vivid as HR’s. The female went directly to the feeder, HR directly to the dogwood.

Giving just enough time for the female to scarf the feeder seeds, I went outside. The female instantly took wing. HR hesitated a few seconds, giving me a “what-gives?” look, then left. I dribbled more seeds into the feeder tray. Filling the feeder was out of the question until I knew for certain the fortifier I was banking on wouldn’t cause the seeds to be refused. So far, no indications, but to be sure I thought I’d run a few more iterations of sample seeding. Besides, I was flirting with the idea that the cardinals might consider me something other than a threat or a nuisance.

Clearly HR knew I was the seed source; knew that before I put any seed out, before, in fact, he’d even seen me outside, when he’d only seen whatever it was he saw through my office window from his dogwood podium. Yes, HR was a new visitor, one I’d not seen before this year. Then how did HR know there was someone or something behind my office window responsible for the empty feeder? There was something going on here I did not understand but appreciated. Well, not appreciated, but found intriguing.

DI still had not shown. I guessed he would soon enough. My in-and-out activity was the only thing that kept him away. The tray restocked; I went inside. Again, HR and his companion returned. She went to and quickly emptied the store. She left before I got outside. HR, from his dogwood perch, eyed me until I bent to open the seed bag to ‘reload.’ As HR left, I again salted the tray, and retreated inside.

This in-and-out shuffle and feeder salting continued fifteen times or so. Each time, HR remained a little longer to stare at me before leaving. I considered that progress. Progress toward what I was uncertain, but I was encouraged.

On about the tenth round, DI appeared but stayed well away from the action. I started carrying the seed bag in and out for each round, knowing left on the ground, DI would quickly figure it out, rip it to shreds, and scatter seed everywhere. It would take him less than three minutes to decimate the bag. He’d do that even though the bag contained no sunflower seed – the unreasoning, wasteful way squirrels approach everything. The coffee can was safe unless I left it unattended longer – when DI would find a way to pop the lid off or chew through it and then manage to eat or transport all its contents.

Some exchanges HR arrived solo. Sometimes, his female companion was a different lady. When HR soloed, he emptied the tray before stationing himself at the window. I went outside only when the tray was empty. The first few times I came out, HR left. A sissy, but a persistent sissy, returning almost as soon as I headed to the front door. After a while though, HR considered me no threat, or deemed his flying speed superior to mine. A chancy conclusion on his part as I had not yet demonstrated my flying skills. On the other hand, a reasonable conclusion, given that my flying skills are in fact, poor. From the dogwood while I meagerly salted the feeder, he watched, never leaving.

Late in this in-out progression, DI started making regular but reserved appearances, staying high up the dogwood. HR and I continued our play and my dependable appearance ensured DI stayed well up the tree. Finally, however, the lure of easy pickings was too much for DI. He began, just after I re-seeded and went inside, to inch his way lower down the dogwood.

His Robustness at first paid little attention to Devil Incarnate. But this time and every time after, when DI reached a point about six feet above easy leap-to-feeder height, HR turned his attentions away from the feeder if he was solo or from his pulpit at my window when he was with a lady, then in the best mockingbird-style, puffed-up and aggressively assaulted DI wherever he had stopped to wait his chance. HR flapped his wings loudly and menacingly, flying directly at DI. Challenged this way, a way I guarantee to which he was not accustomed, DI beat a retreat up the dogwood and onto the roof. I allowed this new scenario a couple encores.

IX – The plan might be coming together

On one of the later reseeding trips, I was toying with the idea of fully loading the feeder, when…

“Why don’t you just fill it?”

I’m was into talking to myself. I chuckled at the thought.

“Why not just fill it?”

That was not me. I’m taking this way too seriously. I did not chuckle.

“What?” That was me, out loud, asking me if I was in fact talking to myself. If I answer, I’m quitting. Maybe I breathed some Mega-Muscle, Registered (TM) dust.

“Lot of in and out. Lot of flying back and forth.”

Not me, again. Now I’m thinking about flying. What was that Mega-Muscle warning, leaping or flying?

“Who?” That was me. Out loud. I’d breathed some Mega-Muscle dust, for sure.

“Me.” His Rotundness was five feet away, beady black eyes trained right on me. “Yup, me, the cardinal. Big red bird. Right here.”

“Unh. Oh. Really?”

“Yeah. How about just filling it?”

“The feeder?”

“Of course.”

“You’ve seen the squirrel?”

“Sure.”

“He’ll pop in as soon as I leave. Sonovabitch will eat all the seeds.”

“Naw, he’s only interested in the sunflower seeds. Which, by the way, are not there.”

“In the process of getting at the sunflower seeds, whether they are there or not, he’ll spill the small seeds. No sunflower there because I know he’ll come looking for them.”

“Millet.”

“What?”

“The small seeds are millet. And some other junk but mostly millet.”

“Okay, that squirrel will spill all the millet and other junk, onto the ground looking for the sunflower seed.”

“Feeder, ground, all the same to me.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Because?”

“As you notice, the monkey grass under the feeder…”

“What? That? You mean the Liriope?”

“…yes, okay the Liriope. Anyway, the seed falls into it, you can’t get in at the spilled seed.”

“I can.”

“You don’t. Or I’ve never seen a cardinal forage around in the Liriope for spilled seed. Only mourning doves go into the Liriope and they only come in the morning and don’t stay long. A lot is wasted.”

“Why should we grub around in the Liriope when a feeder is usually full? Not this one, but usually. It’s not worth grubbing around in the Liriope when there are good seeds in the feeder. Well, until this year, here. Besides, we prefer the larger seeds. You know, it would be nice if there were some sunflower seeds in there. How about some sunflower seeds?”

“That will for sure invite the squirrel. You’ve noticed the squirrel’s interest, right? Anyway, that’s what he’s after, the sunflower seed and like I said, he’ll empty the feeder to get at them.”

“None in there.”

“I know that. You know that. He doesn’t know or doesn’t care, and he’ll waste them all. I’ve kept sunflower seeds out for that reason – I sure don’t want to motivate him.”

“So, you have sunflower seed?”

“Yup.”

“So, put some in the feeder. Cardinals like bigger seeds. You’ve noticed my beezer?”

“Beezer?”

“Nib. Beak. Built to crack bigger seeds.”

“But the squirrel?”

“I’m not afraid of any squirrel. You’ve noticed? I’ve noticed. I feel strangely intolerant of squirrel antics this year, especially here, especially just now, inclined to teach him a lesson. New attitude for me. Never felt this way before.”

“Never before has any bird challenged a squirrel. Except a hawk.”

“Where?”

“Where what?”

“Hawk!”

“No hawk. I was explaining the only bird that would challenge a squirrel is a hawk.”

“Don’t say…”

“Hawk?”

“Don’t say that. It’s a rule. Means one is here or coming.”

“Okay. No bird I’ve ever seen has faced-down a squirrel. Squirrel comes, all the birds fly away, and the squirrel wrecks the feeder. That’s why I quit putting out seed.”

“Someone else runs away, not me, my first year here. Like I said, suddenly I’m intolerant. Not so much that I’d challenge a…”

“Hawk?”

“Don’t! What’d I say?”

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“Okay, you’re new here.”

“No, you’re new here.”

“Whatever. Squirrel doesn’t bother me. Inclined to make sure he knows.”

“Show me. Next time he comes, kick his ass. Then I’ll fill the feeder and add some sunflower seed.”

“Good. Birds you know, require a lot of energy. High metabolism. Means we eat some stuff. Fly around a little bit and it’s all burned-up and we need more.”

“We’ll see.”

“No, it’s true. We burn food like nobody’s business. Gotta eat constantly. It’s a pain. Oh, you meant taking care of the squirrel?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

X – Proof of the pudding

While HR watched, I lightly salted the feeder. Then, questioning my sanity and at the same time amused, I went inside. And waited. And watched. HR never left. He sat on his pulpit branch, facing the feeder, not the window. A thin, chocolate-colored female flitted to the feeder and started to empty the last seed installment. While she pecked away, HR faced her watching, his back to the dogwood trunk.

Immediately, as if on cue, DI showed-up and pranced confidently, tail erratically flicking left and right then undulating like a runaway garden hose, down the dogwood and prepared to jump. Watching the female, I figured HR was unaware of DI’s presence. DI leaped.

HR jetted off his perch and intercepted DI mid-air, flapping monstrously. DI, off balance, whirled like a cat trying to land feet-first, fell flat on his keester into the Liriope, never making the feeder, never gaining his feet, but scaring-off the female. He scrambled through the Liriope, through the flowerbed, out across the walkway, down the driveway, and into the street, disappearing in a brown blur.

I went outside. HR was perched five feet away. “Nice job,” I offered.

“Meh”

“No. Seriously. I had my doubts.”

“I feel strangely territorial. I mean it’s normal, especially with all the ladies around, but this is much more than ever before.”

“Might be something you ate.”

“Could be. Still would like some real seed. How about those sunflower seeds?”

“Sure. Watch.”

I filled the feeder, mixing in a lot of sunflower. The feeder now chock-full, I retired to my office. I didn’t wait long before the next chapter unfolded.

DI came off the roof – he’d clearly covered a good bit of ground to get back after his retreat – onto the top of the dogwood and proceeded only a little slower than before down the trunk. Even with the window closed, I could hear him scolding, righteously angry over being outclassed by a pint-sized, stinking cardinal.

HR, steady in his perch since our ‘conversation,’ launched into the air, executed a brilliant one-hundred-eighty and headed right for DI. DI stopped his scolding and froze. He made a great target and HR nailed him. Whether HR used his ‘beezer,’ his feet, or relied entirely on the furious mad-man flapping of his wings, and whether or not he even actually hit DI, DI lost his grip, slipped a few feet down the trunk, managed to get a grip, right himself and chatter-screeched all the way up the dogwood, faster than I’ve ever seen him move, to the roof and was gone.

Three females arrived to work on the feeder. Three females. I don’t know the mating habits of cardinals, but it sure looked like HR had a thing going. HR joined them. For five minutes it was quiet.

Then DI returned, confidence renewed I suppose or prepared to show just who exactly was boss here and tried again to get down the dogwood as quickly as possible. HR cut him off before he reached launch-point. DI, now fully aware of HR’s unwillingness to be cowed, did not risk close contact, making his exit before HR closed the gap between the two of them.

HR popped to the feeder, joined the females, and got his fill. I watched him pick a sunflower seed and roll it in his beak to crack its shell, much as a parrot does.

XI – Ah! Success!

For the balance of the afternoon, there was a steady progression of females to and from the feeder. Now and again another male would join them. HR came and went several times.

DI never dared come off the roof. Not even when HR was off elsewhere. The feeder was constantly busy. None of the other males were as handsome as HR, but all were eating fortified seed, the females included.

The legend had been established, precedence set. DI knew where there were females, males would not be far away and would eventually and suddenly appear. The females, I swear were getting more rotund by the hour. Must be that metabolism thing. A healthy crop of cardinals.

While any cardinal was at the feeder DI stayed on the roof. Quietly and stock still. When all the cardinals left for whatever reason, smaller birds came by – titmouses, wrens, finches, chickadees and more – DI ventured only to the eave of the roof. As he did, invariably a cardinal flew back, not because he saw DI, but because it was time to refuel. DI retreated up the roof. I wanted to go out and cheer. To congratulate and thank HR. Didn’t. Don’t test success that way.

Two hours before sunset, in the murk of spring dusk, as if according to synchronized watches, all the cardinals, HR, the other males, and the females alike, left. All at once. As a group. All of them. Gone. A convention, maybe. A momentary rush of finches and the like zoomed-in to take advantage. As dusk took more and more of the waning sun, they too, left.

Two minutes later, in the last rays of daylight, DI arrived. He brought a buddy. Sonovabitch!