Usually birds scatter when I enter the backyard, but today was different. Several speckled, iridescent-black birds with yellow beaks had congregated on top of the backyard blueberry cages. They glared at me, their eyes accusatory, piercing and fierce as I approached.
“I know you’re upset about this,” I said soothingly, “but last year I didn’t get any blueberries. This year it’s my turn.”
Puffing out their feathers in a fluffing display, they spread their wings, rotating them in an aggressive manner as I continued moving towards them.
“Oh, stop!” I called loudly. “No need to be vulgar.”
I couldn’t very well expect them to be polite, after all, they were hungry starlings and rude behavior is pretty much the norm for them, but when I saw wild flutterings arising from inside the cages, I knew what was causing their aggressive posturing. The birds were in protection mode. Three young birds had pushed their way under the netting and were gorging themselves on MY berries.
Howling mad, I dropped the bowl I was carrying and sprinted towards my precious blue nuggets. Unzipping the netting I quickly provided an escape route for my feathered friends. Then I promptly zipped the blueberries back into their protective gear and secured the gaps the birds had made at the bottom of the structure to gain access to the fruit.
Rubbing my noggin, I cautiously straightened as more starlings massed onto the blueberry cages and fencing in my backyard.
Son of a gun! This was not a good…not good at all!
Intent on teaching me a lesson, the starlings began to buzz me from behind, while their fellow bird brains loudly vocalized their support and approval.
Not wanting to be hit in the head again, and fearing I was in the birdie equivalent of the Colosseum, I was suddenly overcome by the most pusillanimous inclination, I ran to the house like a lily-livered coward, arms flapping protectively above my head. (Which brings me to the word pusillanimous. It is an adjective meaning: lacking courage, timid, weak, cowardly.)
I was bent over the kitchen sink, gasping loudly, when the hubster entered the kitchen. “How come you’ve got feathers in your hair? Were you playing Pocahontas in the backyard?”
“No, I was playing Tippi Hedron.” I replied, turning to look at him. “Those birds out there just tried to peck my soul out through my eyes.”
“Ooooo. Do it again. This time I’ll watch from the window.”
I narrowed my eyes, pressed my lips together and glared. “Go away.”
The hubster wisely retreated. Was it pusillanimous behavior on his part? You be the judge.