Fowl Play

Today's word (and I'm not making this up): bushtit.  Definition: Either of two small long-tailed birds of western North America having predominantly gray plumage.

So, besides the fact that this poor bird has been harnessed with a spectacularly embarrassing name, what else can I say?  Well, I guess nobody ever thought Barack Hussein Obama could be president with his moniker, either, so there's hope for the bushtit yet.

Interestingly enough, I had a chat about birds on the way home from the bus with my friend and fellow apartment building dweller Greg.  We live very close to a nursing home complex that features a pond, where you can find 20-30 ducks on any given day in the fall.  I told him that last week I walked out the front door to find about 15 enormous Canada geese blocking my path, which freaked me out.  As they stared me down, I momentarily thought there was a waterfowl rumble scheduled that I wasn't aware of.  And I knew, instinctively, that if they decided to rush me I was going down in a hail of feathers and profanity, and I was probably taking at least one of them with me.

Luckily, they waddled off peacably when I walked into their midst, and I didn't have to resort to ridiculous posturing, as I did at my last apartment, when I encountered a giant raccoon at the garbage dumpster.  It was dark, I wasn't paying attention, and I didn't see it until I was about 10 feet away.  I froze.  It froze.  We both stood there, suspended in time, as I thought through my options:

a.  Turn around slowly and climb three flights of stairs back to my apartment, with my garbage.

b.  Drop my garbage and back away.

c.  Keep moving forward and risk rabies.

In the end, I went with d. Lunge forward dramatically while roaring.  Yes, I roared.  I yelled something akin to "Raaaahhh!" and hoped it would be gangsta enough to show the little robber that I was no Jack Hannah.  It worked, if only because, well, who saw that coming?  Not me, I guarantee you.  But you do what you gotta do.

And I'm not alone.  Greg told me that one morning, while tending his garden just behind the building, he was attacked by a turkey.  Out of nowhere.  Granted, they're delicious, but prior to basting I hear they're really mean. So now I have this image of my neighbor, who is a 6'3" black man in his 50s with dreadlocks down to his knees, a very imposing fellow with a gentle smile, battling Thanksgiving dinner in the backyard.  For those of you who aren't good at reading context clues, I'll end the suspense:  he survived.

Do we react this way simply because, as city dwellers, we are caught off-guard by wildlife?  Are we animal lovers until we're ambushed?  Would I be wrong to underestimate a bushtit based solely on its name?  Because if gradeschool taught us anything, it's that kids with weird names need an extra thick skin and maybe some karate moves if they're going to survive. I'll let you know if I ever take a roundhouse kick to the face courtesy of today's word.