Those Infernal Bluejays!

It so happened, some years ago, that I was living in rural Ontario--in a town, indeed, of perhaps eleven thousand people, which hadn't quite decided whether to be remote-suburban or outright boonieville. Giant trees--primeval forest trees--cast their shade over winding streets, which all had names like Cypress Lane and Redhall Crescent. On the upmarket side of town, where my family lived, every backyard had, by obligation, one of the following: a swimming pool, a rose garden, a deck, various trees, or a gazebo. Certain well-landscaped plots had several, or even all of the above. (To my great chagrin, we had the deck and the trees. I campaigned on and off for a swimming pool, but Mother thought they were ugly.) On the outskirts of town, the requirements were a little different. In the front yard, there had to be any two of these: a rubbished car with no wheels on, a dog on a rope, a sign advertising fresh produce of some kind, a dirt driveway, or a weed garden. In the back yard, there could be an above-ground swimming pool, one of those dreadful in-ground sprinkler systems, two more dogs on ropes, a small agricultural plot, or an acre of impenetrable forest.

And then, there was the wildlife. No matter where you were, so, too, was nature. Shake a tree, and you'd be scolded by a legion of angry squirrels, and maybe a chipmunk or two. Have a picnic, and you'd attract a hungry cloud of yellowjackets, and probably a wandering dog. Dig in your garden, and, lo, you'd piss off a mole. Take a book out to read in the yard, and you'd soon feel the presence of the birds. Ah, yes--the birds. There were the crows that tore open the bags on rubbish day--crows the size of dustbin lids, the size of lawnmowers, the size of Chevrolets! There were the sparrows and the cardinals, fluttering and peeping all day long. And then there were the starlings, which once infested our attic, lining the beams with dozens and dozens of nests (which yielded hundreds and hundreds of squawking chicks, and a visit from the exterminator. They had to make several trips, to get rid of them all. I always wondered where they put them--in someone else's attic? In one of those foresty backyards? In a more exciting city, where they could live it up proper?)

At any rate, there were crows and sparrows and starlings, and thrushes and big grackles too. There were hummingbirds, secretive and shy, which built their nests in the bushes. And, late at night, one might hear the distant hooting of an owl, or catch the shadow of a hawk over the moon. There were falcons, as well, for a while, bred at a nearby university. I don't know what became of them. Perhaps there were even eagles--who knows? You could run into anything out there, but what you did run into, again and again, and to your great indignation, was those infernal bluejays.

The bluejay, see, is the most unpleasant of birds, greedy and cruel and, well, pugilistic, sort of thing. A bluejay, without requiring any motivation, will steal your sandwich, take a bite out of your dog, tear your birdfeeder to pieces, bust up your picnic, shite on your library book, and, to add insult to injury, stop back later to rape your cat. It will ruin your favourite radio program by seating itself on your windowsill and butting in with its trademark earsplitting caw. It will smear its dirty-birdie self over everything on your washing line, and dip its face in your iced tea while you're not looking. When, at long last, it gives up the ghost, it'll take your pool filter down with it, or maybe even your car.

"Oh," said my mother--"it's these infernal bluejays again! Look at them! They've been at all the strawberries in the garden!"

"Are you sure it wasn't the squirrels?"

"No! The squirrels at least eat the whole berry! These bluejays just stick their filthy beaks in and vamoose. Look at that!"

I inspected the ruined berry, still shiny-red and perfect, but for the beak-shaped hole. "Can you cut that bit out?"

"No! Those bluejays are full of mites and germs. The whole thing'll be infected. Ruined! This whole row, they've been into." (I stopped by later and ate some of the birdberries, anyway. Don't tell anyone.)

Later that summer, the neighbours' cat was mooching around with a bloodied head--the work of a marauding bluejay mob. Even I got a good birding one evening, as I wandered aimlessly through the forest. I came round a twist in the path, and whoosh! Something big and smelly seized me by the hair, and a blue feather jabbed me in the earhole.

"Gerroff!" I yelped, ducking and bobbing and batting at my head. The bluejay pecked my scalp and gave me a good faceflapping. I stuck out a finger to poke it, and two beaks laid into me--two beaks, not one--I was outnumbered! "Both of you! Off! Off!" The bluejays paid me no mind, squabbling over a lock of my hair. I ran like the wind, hoping to dislodge them by sheer speed. They hung on for the ride, gleefully besquawking my ears. They might've stuck around forever, had they not spied something more interesting in the depths of the woods. First one flew off, then the other, in hot pursuit. I, abused and bedraggled, examined my hair for birdshit (by great good luck, there was none).

Come to think of it, I've never been shat on by a bird. Everyone else in my family has, either on the seashores of Scotland, or at a certain recreational beach in Ontario, where the gulls run rampant. One of my friends even got whitewashed at the Toronto Zoo. That, incidentally, was by a bluejay--and it was, I'm sure, quite purposeful. Seagulls, see, they're just incontinent. They'll go anywhere, decency be damned. Bluejays, on the other hand, can hold it. They wait till the perfect moment, then release their payloads for maximum destruction. I, for instance, have had my lunch shat upon, and also my book. While the shit did not touch my person at all, it still managed to ruin my day.

Back to bluejays, though. The darkness of their hearts is infinite. Stygian. Black as an adder, or Hitler's moustachioes. I've seen smaller birds murdered at their beaks, ripped to little peeping shreds! I've seen squirrels without ears, and chipmunks with very short tails, and mice with beaky wee stabmarks in their chests! I've seen beaks without hummingbirds attached, and hummingbirds without wings attached; nests without eggs; cats without bells; dogs without noses; world without end. Bluejays, and bluejays alone, are responsible for each of these horrors, and a thousand others, besides. Bluejays ate my mother's strawberries and disturbed my peaceful forest walk. Bluejays looked at my milk, and it went sour in that very instant. They spattered my windshield and stole my bicycle. They voted for Margaret Thatcher, Kim Campbell, and--and George W. Bush.

So if you come across a bluejay, eating your pastrami, perhaps, or having its wicked way with your dachshund, kick it--kick it for me, for your country, for honour, for glory, and for world peace. Go on. You know you want to.

(This tirade was inspired by this post at 10,000 Birds, and is not really intended to provoke violence against bluejays.)