Mimi’s Corner: It’s for the birds

By Suzy Fisher

Let’s get this straight from the outset. I do have five bird feeders, a suet and peanut feeder, and a monthly birdseed budget that rivals that of some small kingdoms.

But I don’t like birds. It has very little to do with Hitchcock’s masterpiece, “The Birds,” although that did nothing to enhance my opinion of them. Let me explain.                                                    

When I was a little child, good friends rescued a baby pigeon, fallen from a nest. They named him Petey the Pigeon. He later proved to be Patricia the Pigeon, but that’s another story. Petey’s flying through their house and swooping around my head scared my five-year-old self nearly to death. It didn’t help that I was always afraid he would relieve himself on me. 

Let’s move forward about five or six years. I had started taking piano lessons from Mrs. G, a woman down the street from my house. One day when I showed up for my weekly lesson, I found her all agog over her new pet parakeet. I did what most children would have done, and I said, “Ooh, she’s so pretty!” Mrs. G. then asked me if I would like to have a parakeet. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I said “yes.” I would come to regret that decision.

You can see where this is going, can’t you? A few weeks later, Mrs. G showed up with a parakeet for me, complete with cage, food, and all the requisite paraphernalia. What can one say other than, “Thank you”? I couldn’t very well say, “I’d rather have a German Shepherd.” My parents were even less excited than I was, explaining to me in no uncertain terms that it was heretofore my responsibility. Great!

I named the pretty little thing “Lady.” I didn’t take the time to think up a better name, I’m ashamed to say. We managed to live together in relative avian-human harmony for a few years, although I had to be reminded more than occasionally to clean Lady’s cage.

One day, I came home from school to find my mom upset. Can you guess? She sat me down and told me that poor, under-appreciated Lady had flown this earthly coop for that heavenly bird cage in the sky. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t love the bird. I barely took care of her. But I was sorry that she had died.

Here’s the rub. Before I returned from school, my mom had dug up the courage to reach into Lady’s cage and place her body in a casket (actually, an empty Cheerios box). In so doing, she dropped the bird and then couldn’t bring herself to pick it up again. With a dead bird on the floor, and my little sister and I due home any minute, my mom started crying.

At that point, the doorbell rang. It was one of our regular delivery men. He noticed her tears and asked if she was alright, to which my mom said, “No, I’m not! Our bird died and I dropped it and now I can’t pick it up!”

The dear man told her he would take care of it. And he did: bird, casket, and all. From then on, each time he would see my mom on his delivery route, he would ask if she had any more bird problems.

So, with this history in mind, you tell me how to interpret my current-day obsession with bird feeders. Do I actually like birds now? Or is it penance for how I ignored poor little Lady all those years ago?