The Backyard Bird Chronicles

by Amy Tan

I then bought squirrel-proof seed feeders and discovered how smart squirrels truly are. I bought baffles and more highly touted squirrel-proof feeders, which brought out the athleticism of squirrels. I then went insane and built my own squirrel-proof cage feeders, which also kept out crows and Scrub Jays. I changed to hot pepper suet and seeds that the squirrels hated.

I find all the finches are slobs.

later learned that feeders must be changed every few days, lest the nectar mold. The mold in my feeder was welded to the sides. The rubber spigot and stopper had cracked into pieces from being out in the sun. I also learned that store-bought red nectar is nothing more than water, sugar, red dye, and a waste of money. Better to make fresh nectar—one part white cane sugar to four parts boiling water. Skip the dye. Throw out the first batch of nectar I made with organic sugar. It’s not better. It’s bad for them. How many hummingbirds did I kill before I knew better? I trashed the fancy glass feeder, and later the charming replacements that were a pain in the ass to clean. I dumped feeders with metal bottoms that rusted. I now have six acrylic feeders with clear bottoms and red lids. They’re antithetical to the natural garden effect I wanted to create.

When I first saw this tiny bird on the suet feeder a couple of months ago, I experienced what I call “New Bird Tachycardia,” palpitations from the excitement of spotting a species that I have never before seen in my yard. I thought perhaps this would be a one-time visitor, and to capture it in my mind, I followed Jack Laws’s technique of saying aloud the most prominent features, its behavior and the situation. “Neon yellow and black head, beak is warbler style, body as small as a chickadee, black mask, dull olive back, some yellow on body. On the verandah suet feeder. Jabbing action. Omigod! It’s looking at me. Displeased expression. Sorry…”

Unfortunately, the squirrels love the suet, too. I tried all kinds of methods to keep them out. I bought cage feeders with small openings. The squirrels either chewed through the plastic bits or jumped on the feeders to set them swinging, scattering seeds out of the ports. Cone baffles kept them from climbing poles, but the squirrels would leap onto feeders six feet from tree branches, the fence, or a railing. They’re like Olympic gymnasts with grappling hooks for feet and an ingenious criminal mind. But now I’ve finally found the solution. Hot Pepper Suet, also from Wild Birds Unlimited. I accidentally touched my eye after handling the stuff and thought I was going to be forever blind. Inferno-strength stuff. And here’s the proof: The squirrels no longer raid the feeders. They don’t even bother to come by for a sentimental look-see. The birds, on the other hand, aren’t bothered by the hot pepper at all. I was told that birds have no taste buds. I later read that birds can indeed smell and taste, but not enough to be bothered by spicy food. Who knows, maybe they find the chili-infused suet tastes better than the brand with lower-quality insect heads. Review of Amy’s Bistro: Sichuan offerings. Highly recommend.

A junco sat on top of another cage feeder and watched the rat. Do birds experience something akin to spectator amusement? The rat looked up at the feeder on the ceramic planter. It did not try climbing the slippery sides. It leapt up, no problem—shit!—then grabbed the bars of the cage and looked at the hanging feeder just out of reach. Minutes passed, and I was about to declare victory when, in a split-second blur, the rat somehow sprang into the cage, grabbed a huge chunk of suet, and jumped to the ground, leaving the bowl swinging wildly. The rat furiously chowed down, as her kids watched from the side. Suddenly, the rat shot up as if electrocuted, and ran up the rock wall. Its reaction reminded me of naive diners at a Japanese restaurant who slather onto their maki a dollop of wasabi, as if it were butter, then jump up from their seats, gasping for a fire extinguisher. The extra pepper dusting had done the trick. No more rat raids. But after a few seconds, the fat rat returned and resumed eating the fiery suet it had dropped. I chased it off but it managed to take the chunk of suet with it. The rat kids have now learned a valuable life lesson: Never give up. You can adapt to anything, be it a heap of rotting garbage in a landfill or tricky bird feeders laced with 100 megahertz chili suet in the lovely garden of a writer.

have learned to look for these field marks by drawing them over and over again. I am secretly proud when I make the correct ID of a bird in front of others. I hope I don’t ever come across as a smart ass. I have a long way to go before I am qualified to be one. I am still in a newbie stage, often wrong, often surprised, often puzzled. I know too little to know what’s ordinary. But I have heard experienced birders call the Lesser Goldfinch a “trash bird” because it is so common and numerous. I heard others call a House Sparrow a “junk” bird, an invasive, like the European Starling. I understand the antipathy. Invasive birds usurp habitat and resources. But I can’t help but feel discomfort. The rhetoric is often the same as the racist ones I hear about Chinese people.

I rationalize the cost of mealworms by calculating the amount of money I have saved by not having children. I would have been funding college tuition for grandkids by now. I can justify buying mealworms by the millions.

I once saw a male Crowned Lapwing on safari in South Africa fly up in front of the vehicle feigning a broken wing to draw attention away from the female sitting on a gravel nest with three eggs on the side of the road. Killdeer do this too.

I am in danger of becoming even more obnoxiously bird proud.