There are two kinds of diners in this world.
Those who study the menu.
And those who order the largest thing on it because they are absolutely certain they can finish it.
This Semipalmated Plover belonged to the second group.
He had been scurrying across the mudflat in that familiar plover fashion:
Run.
Stop.
Stare.
Run.
Stop.
Stare.
It is an efficient hunting technique perfected over thousands of years.
It also looks remarkably like someone who has forgotten where he parked his car.
Then he spotted it.
A clamworm.
Not just any clamworm.
This was the linguine of clamworms.
The kind of portion an Italian grandmother would serve before announcing that the real meal was almost ready.
The plover grabbed hold and began pulling.
And pulling.
And pulling.
At some point, he must have realized this was no longer breakfast.
It was a commitment.
But pride is a powerful thing.
Especially when you are a very small bird standing on an open mudflat where every other bird can see you.
There was no turning back.
He began swallowing.
The clamworm kept coming.
And coming.
And coming.
Soon, the little plover looked like a magician performing the world’s least convincing scarf trick.
Except the scarf was alive.
And apparently had no end.
Now, Semipalmated Plovers routinely eat marine worms, insects, crustaceans, mollusks and other small invertebrates. Clamworms are perfectly normal food for them.
This one simply forgot to check the serving size.
It was the avian equivalent of ordering the twenty-four-ounce steak because your stomach made a decision your body had not yet approved.
The plover swallowed as much as he could.
Then stopped.
His expression changed.
The confidence disappeared.
This was no longer:
“I have captured breakfast.”
It was:
“I may have made a terrible mistake.”
He began violently shaking his head, apparently trying to break the worm into a more manageable portion.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
He shook it like a dog with a chew toy.
He shook it like a chef trying to drain a single strand of spaghetti.
He shook it with the determination of a bird who had ordered without first asking whether the restaurant provided takeout containers.
But the clamworm refused to cooperate.
It stretched.
It swung.
It flopped.
But it did not break.
The plover tried again.
Nothing.
Apparently, clamworms are manufactured under standards normally reserved for suspension bridges and commercial tow ropes.
Finally, nature intervened.
The plover regurgitated about half of his ambitious breakfast.
Not his finest culinary moment.
But probably an enormous relief.
There are times when finishing what you started demonstrates perseverance.
And there are times when admitting defeat prevents you from becoming the first Semipalmated Plover ever strangled by linguine.
The little bird composed himself.
He stood quietly for a moment, presumably reconsidering every decision that had brought him to this point.
Then he resumed hunting.
Run.
Stop.
Stare.
Hopefully, this time, with a greater appreciation for portion control.
Nature teaches us many profound lessons.
Adaptability.
Persistence.
Survival.
And occasionally:
When the pasta is longer than you are…
Ask for a smaller plate.
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