For many of us in the Human-American community, nature is the hallway through which we pass to get to the stage on which we strut and talk and work. The real conflicts of the day are played out in offices and meeting rooms; nature is the general term for "stuff on the other side of the window." But now and then you glimpse the life-and-death struggles of critters, their desperate daily battle to survive and how it's really all your fault.
Yes, we put up a bird feeder.
Heads nod in the audience, right? You know where this is going. You think you'll be a philanthropist for your avian friends, give them some food for the hard times ahead. It's not as if they need it -- birds manage. It's the job description. Name: Robin. Occupation: Bird. Job Description: Getting Along Until It's Suddenly Over. But if you put up a feeder, you get to see nature close up outside your window, doing fascinating things like eating. They flee the moment you approach, like someone on "Cops" who has 98 tiny bags of cocaine in his shorts, but if you stand a few feet away you can watch and feel philanthropic.
Bird feeders, however, also attract squirrels, who are selfish and ingenious. About an hour after the bird feeder went up, there was a squirrel gorging himself on the contents. I should note this was a "Squirrel-Proof" bird feeder, but the term is like "Streak-free" on window cleaner -- an absolute lie uttered without shame. Once I bought a bird feeder that held thick, gooey bricks of bird food, enough to last for a month; I put it in the slot, locked it up, patted myself on the back for being nice to birds -- and within minutes there was a squirrel with a hard hat attaching wires to the box, then pushing a plunger and chattering FIRE IN THE HOLE. Well, no, but somehow he got it out and ate it all, which for a squirrel was like eating 16 orders of TGIF Trip'l Stuft Chees-ee Potato Skinz with Bacon Crumbles. You expect to see a sick, sated squirrel on its side on the lawn, digesting, unable to run when you approach, giving you a plaintive look: Dude, that was salty. Beer me.
The Squirrel-Proof Feeder was a challenge, though; the squirrel was trying every angle to get in. Now, I like squirrels. I think they're delightful creatures. But it's fun to mess with them. I crept up behind the window, then rapped hard on the glass. The squirrel revolved 180 degrees in a second, shot me a look that said HOLY FREAKING CRAP OH JEEZ WHAT THE HEY and spontaneously developed the power of flight. He launched himself out into the void like someone ejected from a roller coaster, and that was the last I saw of him.
The seed diminished. We assumed it was being eaten by its intended audience, and this made us pleased. Then one day I saw a bird inside the feeder and noticed he wasn't eating. He was dead. He'd gotten inside the Squirrel-Proof feeder, gotten stuck and expired. This makes you feel like you're a Meals On Wheels driver who just ran a truck into a seniors bingo hall. Who designed this stupid thing? Did he also invent the combination drive-through-window/hand guillotine? Out went the bird, in went more seed. I watched it carefully, expecting to find it on the ground in three days stuffed with 14 pigeons.
Enter Mousey. A small house mouse got into the feeder, and as far as I can tell spent three days eating nonstop. Birds came and went, annoyed; squirrels leaped from branch to the feeder to perch atop, glaring down, hoping for some rodent solidarity. Mousey ignored him. He ate and ate and ate until I thought I would have to smear the bars with Crisco so he could squeeze out. But he would have just licked the Crisco. My daughter adopted Mousey as an honorary pet and believes the same one shows up every day. It probably means there are 16,000 in the walls by now, and they're all taking turns.
There's no real point to this story, except animals are hungry, birds don't think ahead and squirrels can get into anything. You should see them with their little welding masks and metal-cutting blowtorches. It's just adorable.
