A Celebration of the Noble Avian

I won't dwell, today, on the disasters this month has brought. The same wind that's blown in tragedy has also brought springtime. There have been extra seagulls on the ledge just recently, and people have been walking down Seymour Street without their coats on. I've turned the heating off in my flat. Spring is my favourite season (besides summer, that is), and I've been watching it unfold every morning over breakfast, cross-legged in the solarium. Last night, I had a dream where I sat under a tree in Stanley Park, watching drifts of white petals go by. It was very early, and the park was so still I could pick out the faint pop of a leaf detaching itself from a branch sixty feet above my head. Then, something spat on my toes, and I woke up with Stella roosting between my feet. She had brought some chewed-up mango slices with her, and had made quite a mess.

I've decided to take my cue from 10,000 Birds, and try to see as many different birds as I can. Since my viewing range is mostly confined to what I can see from my window, I'll have to content myself with birdsnooping on a much smaller scale, but it still ought to be fun. Maybe I'll get lucky and see some more exotic specimens in the streets when I'm out for a sarnie. I wonder if the Tenants' Board would fine me if I pinned a birdfeeder to my window? One isn't supposed to have anything except white Venetian blinds hanging in the windows, and certainly nothing visible from the street, but I can't imagine a little birdfeeder doing any harm. Unless it fell off and hit someone on the head, of course. I'd have to tie it on very tightly.

So far, I've seen two kinds of seagull--glaucous-winged and some unidentified species--and a Bewick's wren. (I had to act all macho and pretend I hated the wren, since it turned up at the height of the Bird War but I really liked it a lot. I've had the window open all winter, admitting fresh air and increasing my hydro bills, but no more birds squeezed in.)

In honour of my dropping the whole bird-hating act and embracing the teeming skies, I'm going to stop referring to my rat-killing ex-boyfriend as my bird. I don't want to be stuck thinking of him every time I add a noble avian to my been-there-seen-that list. I've felt rather obliged to claim a loathing of all things squawky since I left him, lest some fond mention of birds be interpreted as a fond mention of him. But I gave him that nickname because I like birds, not the other way round. Thus, if I should ever need to refer to him again (which I hope I won't), he'll just be my ex.

It's a shame there aren't more rat species to spot round these parts. I've seen both flavours of true rat already (R. rattus and R. norvegicus) and two very large cricetids (C. gambianus and C. emini). I've poked kangaroo rats on their bottoms to see how high they could jump, and admired the sail-like ears on those woodrats you get. I'd like to see a Malagasy giant rat though, and a Coue's rice rat, and a naked mole rat, and even a big smelly cane rat. How big are the ears on a big-eared climbing rat? How spiny is a spiny rat? Does a monkey-tailed rat act like a monkey? Will a false water rat whisper lies in your ear if you coax it onto your shoulder?

Birdwatching is much more practical. Birds are right out there, flapping about for anyone to see. You won't get a bird sneaking about in your rubbish bin or wriggling under a pile of leaves the second it hears you coming. Besides, I'd have to travel quite a ways to see a rat I haven't seen before, whereas the sky is full of unexamined packbawkies.

Oh, that reminds me--speaking of packbawkies, Virge registered www.packbawky.com this week--a ringing endorsement for my made-up word! For the uninitiated, a packbawky is a loud and exuberant type of bird, generally found in areas occupied by sleeping folks. Packbawkies like to travel in packs, especially at the crack of dawn, awakening the city with their lusty bawking. Or, in the immortal words of Virge:

Packbawky (n): an elegant avian inhabiting urban areas. Packbawkies are valued for their rich melodious cries, which mask the industrial clamour of city streets. They are intelligent and artistic, working collaboratively to decorate buildings using a transient medium composed of urates, oxalates, and phosphates.

This city would be dead without Packbawkies.

In an hour or so, the local packbawky brigade will be out in full force, just as I'm drifting off to sleep. (I've been staying up late this week, trying to stay on top of work.) I'll be too dozy to be disturbed by them. Their squawks will sneak into my dreams, and maybe I'll think I'm in the park again.