The Birdcat Seat

Long time ago, we had a cardinal that took to accosting his own reflection in one of the bedroom windows. He'd start at first light, which was disconcerting, to say the least. We called him "Cushing," as in "Cardinal Cushing," a reference that was lost on Holly when I related the story. I explained that Cardinal Cushing was the representative of His Holiness in New York back in the 60's, but I was wrong - it was Boston - not ideal resume material. All of this bears not a whit on our story, but is enlightening on the failure of memory in the details as one ascends in the 50's and as well to the startling revelation that a common reference for my generation means nothing to the next.

We never did come up with a way to make Cushing (back to the bird) stop his aggression. It went on for a few weeks and then I guess he found more rewarding morning activities. As I remember, this went on for several years in the springtime.

What goes around, comes around. A few weeks ago, I was awakened by an old familiar thumping and fluttering, and, dragging myself groggily to the source of the riot, I encountered a very indignant little budgie staring back at me from a pine bough a few feet from the side window.

He did not attack, but merely glared at me until I went to pee, when the thumping resumed. Sneaking a peak, I caught him on the narrow sill, precariously trying to maintain his balance by flapping his wings, fully engaged in repeated headlong thrusts against the glass.

He retreats to the tree whenever I approach, so I know that he can see through the window, yet it is plain to me that he is attacking his own reflection. If you think about it, this is understandable. After all, most birds in the wild probably do not have much direct experience with mirrors, so it is a fair assumption that the little fellow (Whether or not "he" is a "fellow" is not quite as obvious as it was with Cushing.) is protecting his turf from an interloper of the same species, and therefore competition.

His early morning activities went on for a few days and frankly began to piss me off, as I have long since mastered the fine art of Sound Sleeping until the alarm breaks through the haze.

What to do? I tried turning on a light to minimize the reflection, to no avail, and then I had one of those "Aha!" moments.

A while back I had the distinct pleasure of an extended visit by Hal the Cat, who normally resides with Holly and Sloan in a tenth floor, semi-luxurious apartment just of the Parkway in downtown Philadelphia. As you can plainly see, Hal is a perfect cat. Every moment he is in a cat pin-up pose. Doing one of those cat calendars you see in the mall would be a piece of catnip with Hal.

At any rate, Hal and I got to know each other pretty well over a ten day period while his regular human companions went on spring break. We got along all right except when he insisted on jumping on me just as I was settling down to sleep. He'd stroll up and down my chest, try to curl up in the vicinity of my neck, and generally prevent the descent into sleep. Eventually, I managed to convert him into a leg-warmer instead of a dead weight on my lungs, and as a leg-warmer, he is without peer.

Back to the bird. (Are you beginning to get the picture, so to speak?) I had it in mind to print out a nice high-resolution copy of Hal's portrait and tape it, facing out, to the window of the bird's interest. I would have dearly loved to see the little trouble maker's reaction upon first encountering Hal, but I suspect he did not stay around long. He has not been seen, and better yet, not heard, since Hal began standing guard. And my mornings are once again initiated by the alarm clock, when I say so, and not a moment before. A humane, yet effective solution to one of the small annoyances of life in the country.