Bird Wars

By Chelsie Vandaveer

August 27, 2001

I am a bird watcher, but not of the rabid ilk who are willing to freeze, burn, or serve as mosquito fodder. I prefer passive bird watching. Let 'em come to me; my patio is a very comfortable place. As with all things, this comfort requires a trade-off; I will probably never see a California condor from my chaise lounge. I was delighted one spring when several pairs of birds took up residency around my backyard.

Wrens set up housekeeping in the cedar box by the spruce. Cardinals moved into the pine just past the birdbath. Robins claimed some jutting brickwork on a neighbor's house and hummingbirds took the tangle of honeysuckle. Sparrows attempted to claim a corner of the yard, but were completely routed when the Bird Wars broke out.

Birds of any feather do not flock at all when they want to raise a family. That was one thing these birds had in common. Another, my yard was where all their territories overlapped. An open, well-watered lawn, a full bird feeder, a birdbath, and a flower garden made my yard prime real estate in a bird's opinion. It was agreed that they must have a war.

The Bird Wars did not last more than two weeks. Losses were counted by the feathers. Skirmishes dropped in direct proportion to the number of eggs laid. By the time the nests were full, a treaty was in force. My yard was now a demilitarized zone. Civilly, the birds began taking turns at the birdbath, except for the hummers. Hummingbirds may be charming and cute, but they are never civil when it come to territory. And they do not abide by treaties. When the hummers came around the other birds quietly left. But the ensuing calm was deceptive.

A cowbird waited on the edges of the Bird Wars. She bided her time following the lawn mower and eating the insects it disturbed. Her forebears had followed the bison herds. Because they were nomadic, cowbirds became brood parasites.

At opportune moments, the cowbird laid two eggs; one in the robin's nest, the other in the cardinal's. Then she was gone. The robins punctured the shell and turned the egg out. The cardinals didn't.

The cardinals had defended their nest so fiercely I had not been able to get near it. I was surprised, then, when I found a fat little cowbird in it. I'd have thought the female cowbird would never have had the chance to sneak her egg among the others. But, in the branches of the pine were the shriveled bodies of two cardinal chicks. On the ground was a broken gray egg.

The cardinals raised their adopted child. They taught it to fly and to bathe. They tried to teach it to eat seeds. They showed it all the things a proper young cardinal should know. They treated it like their own.

I had witnessed the murder of three cardinals, one not even hatched. And how was the murderer treated? It was raised and guided and groomed as if it were bonny Prince Bird. The behavior of the cardinals toward "their" child appeared noble and humanitarian.

We humans want to draw parallels between our learned behavior and the instinctive behavior of animals. I think we like to support our beliefs. We like to believe that "this is good" and "this other is bad", that animals like us are "good", and animals unlike us are "bad". Cardinals are good, they are pretty, they sing nicely, and they care for their children. Cowbirds are bad, they are rather plain, their most interesting song sounds like gurgling, and they do not establish families.

But, cardinals and cowbirds are both part of the natural order of things. They fill different niches. Seed eating cardinals don't help control grasshoppers, and if cowbirds nested, they could not follow insect plagues. So how can we think that one is good and the other is bad? Do we see ourselves in heroic proportions with our morality? After all, we are able to bulldoze down a forest in a single bound. But do we ever think about how many cardinal chicks may be present when the bulldozer comes? Are our values all that heroic when cardinals suffer from loss of habitat? And actually, if we had not broken up the natural habitats with our silly lawns, cowbirds would not be so successful. Maybe we should think about the habitats we've created before we disparage the cowbird's behavior.

Someday, I think I will climb a mountain in California to see the condors. But, I've been told they are just another vulture. Still, I understand that there's been some success in returning them to the wild and it might be nice to see them at home.