Bye, Bye Bird

My neighborhood, or at least my little piece of it, is in mourning. Bird died last Sunday afternoon.

Bird was a Guinea Hen. She showed up on my street literally the week after I moved into my half-rural half-suburban ‘hood.  That was three and a half years ago.

For those of you who don’t know much about Guinea Hens, they are large birds – much taller than chickens, but slightly smaller than my Brittany dog. They have lovely black and white polka dotted feathers and squawk with the velocity of a fire engine when they're upset.

            When Bird  first showed up, she was the talk of the neighborhood. That's how I met most of the neighbors. We would meet in the evening and propose theories about where she'd come from.

            Some people believed that she had escaped from a flock on a nearby street but those Guinea Fowl were just a myth. Others thought she’d been dumped when her owner noticed the feral chickens that also call our street home. That's possible.

      

            It didn't matter; the neighborhood took to her, and she to us.  Bird started hanging around the houses at the top of the hill, and one of the homeowners began feeding her. There was a brief debate about what Guinea Hens ate; the consensus was chicken food. Someone suggested buying the cheapest available brand, since she probably wouldn’t survive on her own for very long.

               

           They were wrong. Bird thrived. She was a wily creature. When a pair of coyotes moved in and decimated the local cat population Bird was clever enough to roost in tall trees where she’d be safe.

           I never saw her fly, exactly. For one thing, she was far too bottom heavy for serious aviation. In the mornings when she came down from the tree where she'd spent the night, it wasn’t exactly the smooth glide of say, a pelican over the ocean. She just sort of fell down fluttering her wings and screaming until she hit the ground with a feathery plop. She'd then shake herself off and waddle off toward breakfast.

                

           She stayed close to the house where she was fed, but would run from one side of the street to the other, checking for bugs and ticks, which to the everyone’s delight, she adored. I’ve not had a tick problem since we both arrived.

                

           Bird became quite tame. She never let any human touch her, but would often spend her mornings snuggling on one side of a fence while my neighbor’s fluffy dog slept curled up on the other, the two separated only by a piece of chicken wire. They were about the same size and it was adorable.

               

           She got to know me and my dogs as well, which makes sense since I’d see her three times a day. Neither of the Dane’s acknowledged her existence – to them a bird is a bird, no matter its size. 

           But the first time Poppy the Brittany saw Bird she was dumbfounded. Poppy knew Bird was a bird and she likes to chase birds. But Bird was almost as big as Poppy. Initially when we’d approach, Bird would scuttle away chuckling to herself and waving her bright blue wattles in irritation.

               

           Then it became a game. I’d say hello to her and she’d zoom out from where she'd been hiding. She’d never get close enough to be eaten or chased, but it was enough to confuse poor Poppy.

               

            I wouldn’t call Bird smart. She had a tendency to simply stop in the middle of the street and just stand there, like she had forgotten where she was going. Drivers became used to slowing down and steering carefully around her. There was no choice because sometimes as they passed her, she would let out a shriek and run as fast as she could to the other side of the road.

               

          About a week ago I was walking Dalai and saw a middle aged woman anxiously trying to shoo her into a neighbor’s yard. Bird just stood there and blinked at the woman, who looked perplexed. “Someone’s bird got loose!”  lady exclaimed. “Do you know who it belongs to? I saw it in the street and was worried!” I explained that Bird was wild but the neighborhood mascot. The lady looked stunned. She thought Bird was a peacock. When I corrected her, she seemed disappointed, but personally I think Bird was prettier than a peacock. Thus reassured, the lady got back into her car and drove away. I’m sure she had a great story to tell her friends that night.

               

           Last winter I worried a lot about Bird. It was cold and we had weeks of horrible winds. Every morning when I’d walk the dogs I was afraid I’d find her cold battered corpse. But there she’d be. A little disheveled perhaps, but still clucking.  Those polka dotted feathers weren’t just a fashion statement after all.

           The heat of the summer didn’t seem to bother her either. While the dogs and I would pant down the street, Bird would luxurate on a fence in the shade after drinking and bathing in a neighbor’s water feature.  

                

          About two months ago the city repaved our block and removed the speed bumps. When the bumps were there, people had no choice but to slow down and pay attention.

          But last week, right in front of the neighbor that fed her, a dolt yapping on a cellphone ran over Bird. The stupid girl driving never even slowed down, and certainly didn’t stop, though she had to have known she hit something. Bird didn’t have a chance.

                

         I still look for her every time I drive or walk down the street.  I think about buying a Guinea Hen or two and keeping them in a pen in the yard, but it wouldn’t be the same. Bird was a free spirit, and she moved in just when I did.  I know she was just a Bird, but I miss her terribly.