The Path of Least Resistance
Locked in mortal combat, we were, this squirrel and I. I should have known better. I should have recalled the struggles I went through as a homeowner. Taller and taller bird feeders that a strong gust would topple - I’d determinedly re-erect them and coat the poles with viciously sticky goop that the manufacturer swore would keep the varmints away from the seeds so that the birds could enjoy them.
I have long loved casual birding. The variety, intelligence, and grace of the winged creatures fascinates me. I don’t rise to the professional level of those who join groups and take avian-centric trips, but I do revel in each check mark next to a species Ive spotted in my North American birds field guide. My oldest niece’s interest in the pursuit makes it doubly delicious. I felt honored to watch red-tinged house wren couples prepare their nest, incubate and nurture their hatchlings, and then launch them from under my eaves. Nourishing the same cardinal couple for years brought great satisfaction, and learning the names and habits of the other visitors (nuthatches, titmice, wrens, and chickadees among them) amused me deeply.
Naturally, I hoped the birds would frequent the small deck at my new place. The large birch tree fanned out just beyond the railing screens that me from the 95 traffic just beyond, would serve as a great set of bleachers from which the flocks could observe and swoop down on the buffet.
I’d forgotten about the long-tailed, hungry, furry fiends. Who foiled my every, and ever more intricate, attempt to, as the lone woman croons in Covent Garden in Mary Poppins, feed the birds. I gave up on seed and turned to suet, naively believing it wouldn’t interest the rodents. More fool me. They scaled the deck posts, climbed the tree, and agilely suspended themselves from the green waxed wire suet cage to gnaw at the fatty mixture - seemingly gloating at me and growing fatter and furrier with every bite.
I suctioned a clear feeder to the sliding glass door six feet off the ground, having read that they can’t jump that high, and delighted for a few days as black-capped chickadees, sparrows, and the occasional goldfinch alit to partake of the wild birdseed mix I’d offered up.
But the squirrels sensed an opportunity as they nibbled on the crumbs the birds had spilled. I could see them think. They’d see some seed drop and gaze schemingly at its source. And within the week, they had - it’s a bird, it’s a plane, no - it’s a squirrel able to leap tall buildings in a single bound - managed to propel themselves up to the feeder. And bring it crashing down to the deck, cracking it in several places. I put it in the trash with my birdwatching aspirations.
I conceded, defeated. They’d won. I felt I’d no choice but to give up my dream (and my cat Romeo’s entertainment source) of watching my winged friends sup out my window. But with more than half of a twenty pound bag of seed remaining, I despondently tossed a handful out onto the surface of the deck, figuring the squirrels could just have their fill (“They need food, too, mom,” one of my sons had reminded me).
But lo and behold, the seed spray attracted not only the furry foragers, but more birds than had ever alit on either the suet cage or the suspended acrylic contraption. I and they land right at cat-eye level. I had done everything I could think of to make this work - except the most simple and obvious thing. I had to chuckle while I watched the juncos, sparrows, and catbirds peck at the seed on the brown faux-wood. I wonder how often we all take the long way ‘round because we feel only Herculean efforts merit valuable results. How often we contort ourselves to arrive at a simple solution. How often we just don’t see that tossing the seed on the ground, and letting go of the struggle in the process, can yield some delicious fruit.