Based on a true story. Names have been changed to protect those with malicious intentions towards starlings; some aspects have been exaggerated or invented for the reader’s enjoyment.
“What we need is a river rock,” Adam hollered down to me from his perch atop the sagging, ever-rusting tin roof of the cabin’s porch. “Will you go try to find one?”
It had been a perfect, lazy, Sunday afternoon— until now. The glory of spring-time was in full effect that day. The gentle warmth of a perfectly distanced sun shone on me in my swaying hammock, filtered through the delicate, bright green, brand new leaves of the persimmon trees’ canopy. Previously, Adam had shared my peaceful contentment with the day, but he’d suddenly developed a bee in his bonnet about the family of starlings that had taken roost amidst our rotting roof. He’d been lolly-gagging with me in the hammock, playing gently with my hair in an altogether pleasant manner, but upon seeing a starling swoop down and gracefully enter an open crevice in the southern facing intersection of porch-roof and wall, he’d leapt from the hammock, scurried up the stairs, out of the window and was now standing on the roof, indignant as could be. The sudden dark mood of his vengeful crusade was evident in his posture- hands balled into fists, resting on his hips, chest thrust out territorially, his right foot angled out to the side and tapping impatiently at the sight of me- still reclined in his time of need- as I grasped with slipping fingertips at the last shreds of relaxation the day offered.
Adam had decided, apparently, that our mission was now to rid the world of starlings, beginning this very instant with the small brood currently sharing our home. He announced from his vantage point above the five large entry points into the porch’s canopy, that what we needed to do was to plug one particular hole and that would eliminate them, saving not only our home but the birds of the world from the starlings’ certain evil-doings. In response to my reticence to leaving my comfy canvas haven to go searching through the creek for rocks to match his detailed description— 1 1/2” thick and about 3” wide, please- he shouted back down to me “Please, just help me! Starlings are really bad! They ruin houses and kill all the other birds!”
My inner peace now thoroughly shattered, I finally submitted, surrendered the hammock, put on my waterproof Bog boots, and headed across the large yard down to our small creek. It hadn’t rained for several days, so the water was rather stagnant, and thick with algae and sediment to the point of opacity. With a stoic attitude born not of eagerness nor helpful good nature, but of a desire to end this nonsense as soon as possible so that I could get back to the hammock, I rolled up my sweatshirt sleeve and plunged my hand into the murk. Despite knowing full well the volume of minnows, tadpoles, crawfish, and likely plentiful other slithery slimy critters that inhabited the creek bottom, I drew upon my deep wells of courage as I wiggled my hand around, feeling for Adam’s Perfect Rock. Heaven forbid I would be required to make a subsequent journey down into the creek. After pulling up insufficient rock after insufficient rock, I found one that very nearly met his exacting specifications. Holding the dripping chunk of sandstone away from me, I hiked back up the grassy knoll to the cabin.
I held it up for his appraisal, and from above, Adam gleefully shouted his approval. “That should work! Thanks, Sarah!”
“Sure,” I replied, not quite sharing in his enthusiasm. “Wanna come get it?”
“Can you bring it to me?”
“Um. Why didn’t you come down and get it yourself from the creek, then?” I felt put-upon. Indignant. Much too tired for stairs.
Adam defended himself, “I had to stay here!”
Well, I thought, it felt like I had to stay in my hammock, but here we are. From my new placement next to the south side of the cabin, I could clearly see the size of the hole he was focused on, as well as the other five perfectly starling-sized entry points into the roof, as well as the gaps between the original log walls and vinyl siding. I knew they lived there, as I’d been doing yoga recently in the room that shared that wall, and had heard them chirping and scurrying joyously. At the time, not knowing the extent of their villainy I was now being informed of, I’d thought it rather pleasant and definitely preferable to the mice that roamed the walls of the first floor rooms. However, I decided it would be negligent to not inform Adam of his mission’s fruitlessness.
Admittedly with a tinge of smugness, I shaded my eyes with my rock-free hand, and looked up at him to point out, “You know this won’t work, right? There’s like a million other holes.”
He bristled at my tone. “Just. Throw it up. Okay?”
“Okay! If it’ll make you happy!” With that, I launched the small boulder skyward, not particularly cautiously. It made a loud boom on the metal roof, but didn’t seem to cause damage.
Upon retrieval, Adam made his way back to the targeted hole, laid belly down on the extremely rusty roof, and wedged the rock into the gap. I cringed while watching him bend the filthy jagged metal around the rock, visions of tetanus dancing in my head. At last, he felt it to be a job well done, and stood back up, victorious. “There!”
“If it does work, what if you just trapped in a family of baby birds?”
“Well. Good!” Adam was merciless. “I don’t want ‘em.”
Geez. For a self professed bird-lover, who buys seed and builds homes and feeders to tempt and spoil every other local bird, this was a fairly violent tactic. I hadn’t ever lived somewhere with starlings before, but from Adam’s stories they did seem like pests that could drive away or even ruthlessly murder other, sweeter birds, so I opted against choosing to fight this battle. Adam was in a great mood the rest of the night, feeling accomplished and morally just, and I was happily able to salvage the remainder of my Sunday, with a lovely walk and a delicious meal. No more consideration was wasted upon the lowly starlings, as I sat on the porch to watch the evening’s pastel sunset, as the bright and cheerful, much lauded Cardinals and Gold-finches frolicked around our bird feeder, which was centrally located within the gorgeous and bucolic yard, as they enjoyed their carefree and satiating dinner of seeds and nuts which had been generously provided by their kind benefactor himself.
The next morning was yoga as usual, and wouldn’t you know it, I was accompanied by usual chorus of chirps and scurries in the wall. The little fighters made it! I smiled beatifically as I brought my yoga session to a premature end with one final, heartfelt sun salutation, reflecting upon how the natural world was generally more effective than people are. Namaste, indeed. With that, I headed to meet Adam downstairs where he was finishing his toast and getting ready to head out to work. I sat down in the Ikea recliner, the only moderately comfy chair in the spartan room, and gave him the news.
“Hey, the starlings are still in the wall! I guess it didn’t work. They’re definitely there, and they even sound a bit angry!”
“Ugh, really? Well, maybe we can annoy them enough that they’ll move out anyways.
“Are you sure they’re that bad? The other birds don’t seem bothered.”
“Yes! I’ve seen them kill baby birds! They eat them!”
Ever a fact-checker, I got out my phone and began to google. Starlings, as it turned out, divide opinions harshly and often, in a New vs. Old World delineation. Native to Europe, they are only considered to be a pest in the United States. In the UK, at least, they are much admired for their intricate and sky-filling murmurations. How fascinating! The most extraordinary and historically impressive story was that of Mozart’s pet starling of three years. Starlings are uniquely gifted with a knack for mimicry, and sing often and well, both original compositions and imitations of other birds’ songs. Mozart’s pet was no exception, and was not only a composer in its own right, but acted as a sounding board (sounding bird?) for whatever its owner was working on. These collaborations feature prominently in some of Mozart’s most famous works. Honestly I’ve always displayed a tendency to err towards a European sensibility, so it’s not surprising that this all seemed fairly impressive to me.
Next, I looked specifically into their diet, which seemed to consist solely of seeds, nuts, and bugs. No baby birds mentioned at all. Adam was already packing his bag for the day, adding his afterthought of a lunch- a Chobani yogurt, apple, and granola bar, but I interrupted his departure to begin in on my official pro-starling defense, and let him know what I’d found out thus far. Incredibly, he was unmoved, and his parting order as he headed out was that I promise not to do anything to directly help them, such as removing The Rock.
Okay, fine, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t be rooting for their comeback. I carried on with my research for a while that morning, and found fact after fact in defense of starlings. It seemed that their worst trait is a tendency to travel in large groups and eat more than their share of available bird feed. Otherwise, they’re scrappy, gregarious, rather attractive, and exceptionally musically gifted. Called ugly by many haters, Adam among them, I looked through some pictures, and found them to be rather lovely! The starlings are little punk rock birds, with a shimmering iridescence to their dark plumage, much like the surprising beauty to be found in the suds-covered asphalt of a hot day’s car wash. By now, I was officially sold on these very hard-working and successful immigrant fauna. Whatever I could do to help them, I would.
Though this was a noble intention, there wasn’t much I could do to help, beyond coming to their moral defense when I felt their characters were being unfairly attacked due to stereotype. Unfortunately, when it comes to many social issues, I frequently found myself to be hampered by the same limitations. Not having the infrastructure to make any kind of notable difference, but feeling morally obligated to advocate against discrimination, I often felt hypocritical. This was no exception, but I hoped that if the starlings knew that I could see past their spotty reputation to their many wonderful attributes, they’d feel encouraged.
Before bed that evening, I traipsed up the creaky, uneven wooden stairs to grab my current novel from the yoga room, to find my usually stolid and unexcitable cat in the midst of a complete freak out. She was awkwardly crouched and staring at at a baseboard, completely frozen. Slowly, she lifted one paw at a time, taking backwards steps so gingerly that you would’ve thought the floor to be laden with explosives. When she’d reached the center of the room, she ran first to the East wall, pivoted, then Westward to the desk, before finally careening out of the door to the North like an old-timey cartoon character, legs akimbo, dust in her wake. I had been stuck standing just inside the doorway, agog at her uncharacteristic display of chaotic energy, but following the cat’s dramatic exit, I decided to investigate, thinking I’d perhaps find a mouse trapped behind the baseboard, or (fingers crossed), a little nest of starling hatchlings that had somehow made their way inside because we’d blocked their exit with The Rock.
A vision of such adorable frivolity was not in the cards for me. No, instead, I was greeted with the stuff of nightmares. A visual representation of all that was evil, of that which one often fears might grab then at night, were the duvet ever to slip off and expose vulnerable toes to the darkness. Yes, right there, slithering between the baseboard and the old log wall, was the terrifying, dark as an abyss, scaly, rippling, six feet of a large black rat snake. After realizing that I wasn’t being sucked into an underworld, but that there was the very real situation of an enormous snake in our house, I careened away from the wall and across the room, and shouted for Adam.
Of course, he was in the bedroom and already had the fan on loudly— he’s one of those border-line insomniacs who can only sleep in a very specific atmosphere which includes the white noise of a fan— so he couldn’t hear me at first. So, there was a rather lengthy back and forth at the top of our lungs while I tried to simultaneously express the urgency of the situation while still staying calm enough to be comprehensible. Eventually, though due to the communication breakdown, his Knight-in-Shining-Armor moment didn’t have quite the alacrity that it may have in my fantasies, Adam came to my rescue. He peered down, identified the snake, and reassured me that everything would okay.
“It’s just a black rat snake- they’re not poisonous or anything. It won’t hurt us.”
A likely story. As always, when presented with new information, I googled. “It says if they’re angry or threatened they’ll bite, and it could get infected!”
Adam smirked paternally. “Look, it probably doesn’t want to be in here any more than we want it to be. But it’s bedtime, so should we go to bed?”
Nobody, I think in all of global history, has ever been more attached to their bedtime than Adam was to his. I’d always known it would take precedence over nearly everything, but now it was overshadowing an actual emergency.
“No! They strangle and eat rabbits and birds. The cat is not safe, and this is NOT okay.” I was still avidly researching. “They can be up to nine feet long!”
Then, Adam asked a sensible question. “But what can we really do about it right now?”
Well, I was stumped. I had no plan. We had to just go to bed and hope for the best case scenario, that we all survive the night with a clearly unholy and deadly predator running rampant through our home. So we slept, surprisingly well. A sweet sleep, against all odds, nary a nightmare nor a rude awakening between the two of us. In fact, the snake’s intrusion into our pleasant home seemed completely forgotten, except that my upstairs yoga practices fell off sharply over the next few days. There was still the slight chance that the snake had hunkered down in the baseboard and was lying there in slithery wait for my next appearance. I didn’t want to give it the satisfaction of its hypothetical patience paying off, nor did I want to be strangled by a snake.
However, my back started hurting after a couple of days without stretching, and one sunny afternoon I mustered the courage to venture back upstairs, suss out the room’s snake population, and potentially do some stretching on the comfortable carpet up there. After a trepidatious peer between the baseboards, I felt well-assured that the immediate threat of a snake was thwarted, and went back to my regular scheduled Asanas. Life carried on, as it does, and not much thought was given to any of the wildlife that may or may not be living in our walls, until a few days later I realized that more thought would have been given to it, had I heard any signs of critter life at all. I hadn’t heard the starlings rustling or chirping in the wall since the night we saw the snake. The snake, which according to Wikipedia, could climb trees and buildings to gain access to birds nests. With a sinking feeling in my heart, I shuffled over to Adam’s desk, and pulled the earbud out of his ear.
“What?”
“I think that the snake ate the starlings- and their eggs.”
Adam gave this horrible news a moment of careful consideration, pushing his rolling chair back and swiveling around to look at me. He crossed his arms and took a deep breath, seemingly prepping to offer an insightful opinion, or perhaps some sympathetic condolences.
“Well.”
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