FOR THE BIRDS

Do you realize that I have been attacked by birds on four different occasions?

I bring this up because, let’s face it, I am well ahead of the national bird attack average. I’m a modern day Tippi Hedren, and not just because we both claim to be Melanie Griffith’s mother.

I started thinking about this the other day when I was sitting at my parents’ house. We were out on the deck, and a little bird came zooming by. I pretty much went flashback, diving under my chair, while everyone else just watched the harmless little thing flit by. My sister noted that I was a little jumpy, and that maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with my repeated bird attacks.

The first attack happened at such an early age that I do not remember it in vivid detail. However, I remember enough. My family was at the beach, just minding our business, when for no reason, a seagull came swooping down and attacked me. I may have been a small child, but I was not so small that a seagull could have carried me off, so I have to think that my maiden attack was out of sheer nastiness.

The second attack was by far the worst of the bunch. I was about four, and I was kicking around in the backyard, doing what four-year-olds do, which is normally whatever Mom said not to.

During this backyard romp, I encountered a baby blue jay. Being a sympathetic young lad, I scooped the bird up. Truth be told, I have no idea what I planned to do with it. Maybe I was going to train it to go steal candy for me or something. Or better yet, to serve as my bodyguard blue jay, fending off paparazzi and/or sisters.

Whatever my plans, the mama blue jay had other plans. You know how you hear that you shouldn’t pick up baby birds because the mother will abandon them? Well, I don’t know whether that is true. What I do know is that you shouldn’t pick up baby birds because mama bird will go OJ on your head.

This blue jay – easily weighing in at 70 pounds – came tearing in and dove down, dragging its razor sharp talons of death across my scalp, sending blood pouring down my face. My dad recalls the story thusly: I was running towards him, blood gushing, mama blue jay still attacking, and baby bird firmly in my hand. He was screaming, “DROP THE BIRD!!!” I held onto the bird. He must have been very proud at that moment.

My third bird beating came at the hands of a territorial mockingbird. I was a junior in college and was working at a plant nursery. I was assigned the task of weeding out greenhouses. Apparently, they could not think of anything more boring or wretched, so they gave me this. I strolled all the way to the back of the greenhouse when I felt a swoosh of wind come across the back of my neck. I whipped around to see the flash of gray as a bird landed in a potted tree nearby. Then, in a split second, it came back again. And again. And again. It began circling me, dive bombing me, turning around a few feet later, and coming right back. I was ducking and covering, fearful of another blue jay incident. I started to make my way out of the greenhouse at a rather accelerated speed. The bird swooped past me from behind, made a turn, and then made its final assault. It came straight at my face, screaming what were probably bird profanities. I ducked down, covering my eyes, and felt the bird crash into the bill of my cap. My cap went tumbling behind me, and I went into a full-on sprint to get out of the danger zone. I never did get the hat back. The removal of my scalp was not worth it.

My final bird assault came at the hands of my most impressive fowl foe. I was writing a story on a local ostrich farm and had gone out to take some pictures of the giant birds. The owner of the farm told me that the babies would be the best ones to get pictures of, since I can get right in the pen with them. Great, I thought. Close up and personal with li’l baby birdies. Because we all know how well THAT usually turns out for me.

But in the interest of journalism, I agreed to enter the pen. Well, it turns out baby ostriches are slightly taller than I am. And when you climb in a pen of 20 or so curious ostriches, you have suddenly become their pecking focus. I stood there, trying to stoically snap pictures, when I felt gently yet forceful tugs all over my pants and shirt. And then my hair. I lowered my camera and looked around to see all of these giant birds tugging me different directions with their beaks. I was surrounded, and every time I would try and move through the crowd, the ostriches would get agitated and pick up their pecking pace. I eventually made it out of the Pit of Certain Death. I am pretty sure that ostrich farmers do this kind of thing to reporters on a regular basis just for entertainment. Maybe they can’t get cable where they are.

So that brings us to today. Against all of odds, I have survived more bird attacks than a person should have to. I do not know why I am such a popular target of birds. Maybe they know how much chicken I eat. Whatever the reason, you can bet that I will be keeping an eye to the sky, waiting for birds to attack. I know they’re out there waiting. If they do attack again, I’ll be ready. I’ll know exactly what to do. I’ll drop the baby.