invaders

Blue Jay Comes To

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Blue Jay comes to the big feeder and bosses everybody around.

But he is afraid of Woodpecker.Blue Jay

 

How do I know?

He’s more jittery around the black and white striped fellow. And it takes more bluster to get Woodpecker off the big feeder, whereas, the little guys frighten easily at the least flutter or squawk. In an attempt to get Woodpecker to shove off, Blue Jay flaps and caws. The feeder swings crazily like boat on a stormy sea.

From my desk, I call at him, “Stop that. Go away!” Three times I admonish.

Blue Jay flies to a nearby branch to spy on his enemy. And to try to shut me down, he tilts his head and directs his left eye at me, the source of rebuke. I speak more kindly to him now, from my seat inside by the window. I remind him of the other, smaller feeder. Tell him he doesn’t have to share. Tell him he can have his very own feeder.

He flies deeper into hiding in the tree’s leafy middle where I am unable to see him.

I imagine he is feeling chastised, and so, irritated with me. I figure he thinks I just didn’t understand his importance and why he, not Woodpecker, should have the feeder Woodpecker was hogging. By rights, shouldn’t Blue Jay have the bigger feeder?

Tufted Titmouse suddenly lands on the roof of the second, smaller feeder, now unafraid of Blue Jay hanging back in the tree. And then Squirrel takes small squirrel-sized leaps in slow, careful, motion. He looks around nervously after each jump, as he heads to the base of the feeder where a carpet of sunflower seeds awaits. Evidence of many feeder squabbles. Seed spillage is the day’s main course for many visitors.

And then comes Blue Jay. Which I like to imagine is because I told him so.

He flies to the smaller feeder and I feel gratified.

Woodpecker continues tapping at a spot on the big feeder, heedless of nearby activity.

And suddenly a whoosh, another whoosh, and three of Blue Jay’s relatives join him at the smaller feeder. All goes well. And before too long, those in attendance disband.

Minutes later, Blue Jay alights on the east side of the larger feeder. It rocks gently and Woodpecker, already there, stops pecking. Focused and unmoving, he eyes Blue Jay briefly. Woodpecker then turns back to his work to extract seeds from the feeder.

The two are on either side of the large feeder but Blue Jay doesn’t make his usual, noisy squawk. Rather, he sits there silently glaring at his black and white striped nemesis. Woodpecker stops now and returns the glare with indifferent curiosity.

They are still for thirteen, then fifteen, seconds.
And then sudden movement when they both begin tapping their beaks into the feeder with vigor. There seems to be some kind of resolution. An unspoken agreement to disagree. Maybe.

Ant.

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ANT

I’d just stood up, preparing to flush, when I saw a carpenter ant moving near the base of the toilet.

Averaging about a half-inch long, carpenter ants are black, usually larger than sugar ants or red ants and, in my experience, don’t often bite.

While carpenter ants find their favorite food, “honeydew,” a substance found on certain plants, outdoors, they find other necessities such as water, nursery space and the like, indoors or out. When the clan needs a new home, nursery space, victuals, or water, “scouts” are charged with the quest and leave the colony to that end.

Over the past twenty years living in this house, as Winter softens into Spring, and Spring heats up into Summer, I have spied “scouts” ambling along on counters, meandering behind table legs, climbing up the kitchen wall, or sneaking behind the sink’s backboard. In their tireless work, “scouts” follow their cousins’ scent-tracks or start their own. I have watched as they halt, adjust a back leg, take an invisible sip from a tiny drop of water, or just stand still. I’ve seen their shiny, segmented, curvaceous black bodies zip around my house in their endless search.

When I’ve felt warm-hearted and have the time, I’ve carried errant creatures pinched between thumb and forefinger, or held in a loose fist, to my window where I’ve flung them from my bedroom window, or out the kitchen door, or from the downstairs bathroom window into the great beyond. Our house sits at the edge of a woods and is surrounded by evergreen trees and bushes, so the ants I’ve tossed over the years have more than likely landed safely only to return again to continue their quest.

Mostly, though, I have been heartless. I drop the crustacean invaders into the kitchen compost, flush them down the toilet, down the drain or, on very, very rare instances, even step on them, smashing their tiny, crunchy bodies into an ant paste.

It’s rare, though, really, my killing them. Hell, killing anything, has not been my preference. Rather, I have always wanted the ants to get it together and just leave; promptly, peacefully, and of their own volition, I would like them to voluntarily pack up and move to where they belong: not in my house.

I have even had conversations with my crunchy tenants. One-on-one as well as in groups, stressing to them that the trees, plants, bushes, grass, and logs that abound, outside of the walls of my house, are their rightful domain. I have asked them to leave.  Kindly and plainly, I have told them I don’t want to kill them or, like I said before, anyone. There is enough space for all of us here on the earth, but I don’t want them in my house. I pay the mortgage and the electricity and the water bill and they offer nothing in return. I’ve told them I pretty much stay out of their house and they should, by all rights respect my wishes and stay out of mine.

Meanwhile, in the story at hand…

…it was as I turned to flush the toilet, not yet standing, but still rising from the throne that I spotted the “scout” wandering around my bathroom floor. I acted quickly, before fully thinking things through and snatched him up. I think “scouts” are male, so I’ll refer to him as Elroy going forward. I picked up Elroy and tossed him into the shit and toilet paper-filled bowl whose contents were already swirling in the direction of the septic tank.

As I watched, I realized I had been lying to myself about preferring not to kill ants. The many ant assassinations I’d performed bubbled up into my thoughts. Over a decade of summers and ant invasions. Ant murder after ant murder filtered into my mind, piling one on top of the other until it hit me. All the killing I’d done of these little critters supported one thing. I was not at all averse to killing as I claimed earlier. I wasn’t a pacifist at all. Here I was watching blankly as Elroy went to his watery grave. It struck me then that I was a serial ant killer, and I needed to make right this most recent wrong.

I bent over and watched my thumb and forefinger, pincer-like, pluck out the toilet-papered Elroy. I carefully picked away the sodden toilet paper and Elroy’s legs returned to their quick, ant-like movement. I cupped my right hand loosely around him and sped to the window. With my left hand, I lifted the screen and with my other hand pitched Elroy into the night. As he sailed into the darkness, I wished him all the best.

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