Attention all avian residents of Hamilton! Are you tired of building nests? Do you dream of different and exciting food flavors, rather than just “worm?” Has searching for clean water to drink and play in become a chore?
If so, come visit the Hamilton Avian Welfare Hotel, also known as “My House.” Here, you’ll find that one of the owners—not the one writing this column—has invested large amounts of time, money, and effort to make sure you and your bird-brained friends can be comfortable.
A bird feeder at the front window, attached by suction cups, allows you to enjoy our version of dinner theater, viewing the interior of the owners’ domicile while you enjoy a carefully selected assortment of bird seed. You’ll be turning your head, Exorcist-style, to get a look at what those crazy humans are doing inside—mostly, sitting and staring at you.
We haven’t actually taken to advertising our wares, but word of mouth spreads just as quickly. Over the past two years, our house has become a haven for feathered friends (and a few feathered fiends). My wife has installed a bird bath, bird houses, and bird feeders, some suited to specific species.
The birds line up in nearby trees, awaiting their turn to grab some food, but this isn’t a scene of grim survival, like queueing for government cheese in some Cold War-era Soviet Republic. Instead, the atmosphere is frenzied, mostly jolly, with their faces betraying a bit of disbelief that anyone would so foolishly expose their seed stores.
Meanwhile, our monthly grocery bills, which now include multiple appearances of Woodlands Value Blend Wild Bird Food, continue to grow. I’ve checked, but unfortunately the IRS doesn’t allow me to report several hundred birds as dependents.
While the birds enjoy a palatable mix of “millet, black oil sunflower and other grain products,” I eat two day old leftover pasta, with butter.
In recent years, ornithologists have conducted studies to better understand the bird hierarchy, specifically as to how often one species defers to another at bird feeders. For example, blue jays are dominant over robins, while robins dominate cardinals. (This is strictly in the physical realm; cardinals have enjoyed a recent surge in the attribution of spiritual powers to them as messengers from beyond, or reincarnations of deceased loved ones. It’s worth mentioning that in most traditions, though, coming back as a bird is a demotion.) Crows are at the top of the local bird rankings, but they don’t often bother with bird feeders, preferring to bust into garbage bags on curbs and sample what the humans eat.
The same rules of engagement seem to apply to the bird bath, where nervous, jittery sparrows dart in for a quick splash before they’re chased out by some larger species. While they’re there, these tiny, dirty birds enjoy the free-spirited, if not completely sanitary, custom of bathing in the water and then drinking from it.
A recent study was published in The Proceedings of the Royal Society —which, contrary to what you might think, is not a gossip rag focused on drama in the British royal family, but rather a respected scientific journal. It found that individual birds from social species did poorly against their not-so-social counterparts.
Roslyn Dakin, behavioral ecologist, senior author of the study, and not one to mince words, called the social birds “groupy and wimpy.” This means an outsized portion of our birdseed is, in all likelihood, going to the jerks of the bird world.
Like most people, I can identify a few birds by sight: blue jays, robins, cardinals, mourning doves, sparrows, plus the occasional woodpecker. But some visitors weren’t readily recognizable—to me, at least. So who were these deadbeats, anyway?
Seeking answers, I consulted Merlin ID, a smartphone app that claims it can identify birds by a user’s sound recording, or by a photo. Birds, being a bit “flighty,” are not prone to posing. As a result, I found myself silently stalking them, or setting up blinds, smartphone camera at the ready. I felt like a paparazzo.
Testing the app, I managed a few successful identifications, like the American Robin and the Grey Catbird. It occurred to me that most U.S. citizens would support helping American birds, but many Grey Catbirds migrate to the U.S. from Mexico every year. Were they entitled to the same treatment?
Purple martins are a unique bird species almost completely dependent on man-made birdhouses, which has led to many interesting variations of the bird apartment building. At first glance, being a bird landlord seems like a bad deal. Your tenants don’t pay rent (they prefer to sing for their supper), and good luck trying to evict them before they are ready to leave.
I wondered about the short and long term effects of aiding our neighborhood birds. How much was I willing to spend to help them? What proof did I have that they were actually looking for worms, or building their own shelters, instead of just mooching off what was provided? Did they just need some tough love? Between causing them to forget how to find their own food, and establishing a heavily trafficked nexus for bird diseases like avian flu, were we hurting them rather than helping them?
Studies indicate that when humans provide seed and shelter, bird survival rates go up, especially in winter. And unlike purple martins, most birds don’t become reliant on humans for food or housing. Also, a kind of symbiosis occurs: several studies have indicated that mental health benefits accrue to even the most passive birdwatcher. Inviting birds into the Hamilton Avian Welfare Hotel can be expensive and time-consuming, but it’s also in our own self-interest. Or to put it another way, feeding the birds is not just “for the birds.”
(Illustration created with AI.),
