Alfred Hithcock’s 1963 movie “The Birds” changed my life. I more than half believed his premise that our feathered friends may someday turn on us. In the movie, birds of all breeds joined forces to fiercly attack us groundlings and there were casualties. I had reason to believe this is possible.
As a small boy I had an unpleasant encounter with what I thought was a fine feathered friend. A parrot bit me as I offered him a cracker. I scolded him and he replied profanely. Adults had to break us up and I think the parrot circulated the false accusation that I am anti-avian.
Since then I have been regularly pecked by parakeets, jeered by jays, taunted by titmice and awakened most mornings by a mocking bird who can expertly mimic an alarm clock.
The USA bird population is estimated at about 20 billion which would be 60 birds per human target, but if you’ve ever been on a December bird count, you would know 20 billion is a very rough estimate.
Our long ago shivering bird-counting group was attempting accuracy but the birds never cooperated. How many smirking mourning doves were watching from inside the fir trees? How many southbound craven ravens were too swift or too high for an accurate count? How many “feathered friends” didn’t really want to be counted? (That trouble maker parrot!) It was around that time I saw the Hitchcock movie.
Last week I had a terrible nightmare after watching “The Birds” for the umpteenth time. In the scary schoolyard scene, a small flight of crows quickly grows into a squawking black cloud that blocks the sun and attacks panic-stricken school kids who are fleeing for their lives.
In my dream, I’m walking my dog Molly down the hill to fogbound Lake Parsippany. The fog is lifting and I see one Canada Goose swimming just offshore. I turn to watch Molly making a DNA check on a telephone pole and when I turn back there are hundreds of geese climbing the embankment followed by squadrons of swans and mallards.
“Get me outta here!” Molly shouts. (Molly can always talk in my dreams, but that’s another story.) We’re both past our prime but Molly and I skedaddle up the hill followed by this hissing, quacking attack force. The swans begin swooping and swiping. (Swooping, swiping swans can be very dangerous.)
We are overrun just as we reach home and I struggle with the hard-beaked attackers, but I am soon pecked down. Just then, thank Heaven, the annoying mocking bird outside begins his predawn alarm clock imitation and awakens me.
I’m relieved to hear Molly snoring beside my bed, but she is almost covered by feathers and I realize I’ve been fighting with my pillow.
Imagine That 