So, there I was the other day refilling my bird feeders when a flock of ravenous birds nearly mauled me. Although there were a few near misses (and missed poops), I believe my feathered friends knew who their mamma was, and therefore, had no intention of poking out mama’s eyes with their pointy little beaks. However, the experience did remind me of the scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s 1963 horror movie, The Birds, 
when Tippi Hedren’s character had a less than friendly encounter with several sea gulls. Still, with the weird way my brain operates, I could not help but consider a comparison between the birds’ insatiable appetite for my bird seed and a human’s addiction to alcohol or drugs. Thinking I was possibly on to some earth-shattering revelation in human:animal behavior, I decided to phone my husband Marty and share with him my observation. I also wondered if I had become the crack dealer to all the birds in my neighborhood.
The phone call started out well but quickly went downhill when Marty asked me why I was phoning him when I was literally standing twenty feet away. I then shared I had a confession to make and that sometimes confessions are difficult to say in person, so that was why I was phoning him. Always unflappable, Marty gave me a “WTF?” look but nevertheless listened patiently as I continued. That was when I told him I was a crack dealer. And that was when Marty gave me a second “WTF?” look and then actually shouted, “WTF?” across the yard. Fortunately, none of our neighbors were outside to hear this except for a nice man across the pond who was playing with his dog, but that was okay because I’ve heard him say f**k plenty of times before when he was building his deck.
I then proceeded to explain to Marty why I thought the animals had become addicted to the crack corn, the nuts, the berries, and the other seeds I feed them and how I unintentionally had become their dealer. I wondered if I would be raided by wildlife officers who would send me to a wildlife and gardener detention center where I would be forced to wear an orange jumpsuit (not a good look for me – plus I have sensitive skin) and bunk next to a 6’5”’ tattooed woman named Lady Snake.
Marty proceeded to correct my pronunciation, stating it’s cracked corn, not crack corn, and informed me that supporting wildlife and natural habitats was not the same as creating avian junkies. Third, he told me he didn’t think there was such a thing as prisons for gardeners or nature lovers, however, he thought they might be willing to make an exception for me. He then thanked me for sharing the prison scenario of me bunking with another woman – especially a woman who was 6’5” and full of tattoos, because he never considered an image like that before but wasn’t sure if he found it exciting or extremely troubling.
I then asked him if he was sure about the cracked corn spelling thing because I thought crack corn was a better name for the stuff. I pointed out the frenzied way the birds always dove into the platform feeders right after I refilled them, and I shared the rumor I heard that one of the Northern Mockingbirds actually sold one of their first born for a fresh hit of acorns and sunflower seeds. Finally, I brought up the questionable behavior of the squirrel. I said to Marty, “Just look at his eyes and how jittery he always is. I think he is definitely a candidate for Celebrity Rehab. I’m just praying I don’t wake up one morning to find a tiny little syringe filled with peanut butter laying next to his lifeless little squirrel body.”
That was when Marty gave me another, “WTF?” look, told me squirrels always look jittery, and asked me if I was using drugs. He then calmly said that if I was so concerned about making the animals dependent on the feeders, I should stop feeding them.
And that was when I said, WTF?????!!!???? ……and then proceeded to explain that I couldn’t do that because that would force everyone into withdrawal. I asked him to imagine what it would be like if every bird, squirrel, and deer in our area was forced to go cold turkey? It would be pandemonium. They would be breaking into houses looking for their next score. They would have to go to other neighborhood dealers who might stock their feeders with inferior seeds and (gasps) fillers. Families could be torn apart. Lives might be ruined.
Marty then told me I was starting to sound a lot like a female version of Walter White or maybe Ruth Langmore (minus all the swearing and the awesome accent and acting) and I perhaps needed to stop binge watching shows like Breaking Bad or Ozark. He then said all he was suggesting was I consider cutting back on how often and how much I feed the animals.
And I was like, “That’s a great idea. Instead of creating drug addicts we can instead run a sort of wellness or rehab program for animals.” I then shared I noticed that the doves and robins had really packed on the pounds since I added the unsalted nuts and raisins to the feeders, and I worried their A1Cs and rates for diabetes might be higher. I then asked Marty if he thought any of the animals needed to pee or drink more?
And that was when Marty told me he needed to drink more and was going into the house to have a few beers. He asked me when I might be coming in to join him and told him right after I feed the fish in the pond and say goodnight to my beloved piglets with wings birds.
