As a man of a certain age, I have developed an interest in backyard bird-watching. I am not yet to the stage where I go on bird-watching hikes or trips, nor am I particularly adept at identifying them solely by looks or their vocalizations. But I can mostly tell you which birds happen to be at my feeders at any given moment. Largely, I get house wrens (of which I always have a plethora), though there are also the cardinals, blue jays, woodpeckers, and the occasional Carolina wren, notable for its incredibly loud calls. On the larger side, mourning doves and robins abound.
It all started when my mom gave me a feeder — I now know that it is called a hopper feeder — and some seed. From there, I learned that the true value of feeding birds isn’t in idyllic moments on the patio watching and listening to them, but in the war every backyard bird enthusiast finds himself embroiled in. This is why bird-watching attracts so many men. It’s not about peacefully aging; it’s about the masculine desire to do battle, which in the case of feeding birds means raging against squirrels.
Squirrels are not particularly threatening, but they are crafty. They will learn to eat safflower seed to spite you, despite the fact that they supposedly hate it. They will thwart almost any defensive measure you put in place.
If you’re in the country, you can shoot them, as the owner of the Wild Birds Unlimited
