It started out innocently enough. Five years ago, birds were nothing more than aerial menaces with sniper-like accuracy, dive-bombing my freshly washed car with unholy glee. My only wish back then? That they kept their “deposits” off my windshield.
Fast forward to now? I’m the guy who pulls over on the highway, binoculars in hand, whispering “Sweet fancy feathers… is that a Yellow-Shafted Northern Flicker?!”
I’m a man’s man, mind you. I grill steaks with my bare hands. I fix things without reading the instructions. And now… I lovingly refill safflower seed stations like I’m serving a five-course meal at a Michelin-star restaurant. Birds Unlimited practically has me on a customer loyalty plaque—”Most Enthusiastic Avian Caterer, 2025.”
Oh, but it gets better. I build houses for them. Not just any houses—custom-built condos with strategically sized holes to deter squirrel squatters and raccoon vandals. These are love shacks for the winged elite. Five-star accommodations for the Tinder dates of the treetops.
Then comes the nest-building phase. This, my friend, is when the real drama begins. When I see a mama bird fluffing the nest box with such purpose, I get emotional. I imagine them touring the property like HGTV house hunters:
“There’s a constant food supply, Gary, and look—running water in the bird bath!”
“And no predators in sight! You know how much I hate hawks.”
It’s glorious.
And don’t even get me started on the chicks. Those newborns look like prehistoric lint with mouths. Literal baby pterodactyls. But I love them. I love their weird faces. I cheer on their ugly little screeches like they’re singing opera. I become a bird doula, emotionally invested in every wormy delivery.
And the best part? Sitting on the deck, coffee in hand, surrounded by flapping, chirping, tweeting, feathered joy. I look around and think, “Yes. This is exactly how I imagined relaxation in my later years: one with the birds. Literally.”
So, call me bird-brained. Call me cuckoo. Just don’t call me late when the orioles show up—those nectar feeders don’t refill themselves.
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