A Titmouse Rebuke

In late summer I sit out in the tub as dusk comes on; sunken deeply into the soothing hot water, listening to Mother Nature’s varied sounds. In the evening at this time of year, it is mostly the calls of birds that enter the ear; but soon it will also be the incessant calls of katydids and crickets. I prefer to listen to birds singing their melodious tunes.

On this evening I gradually become aware of the non-melodious chatter of a titmouse—not his simple, whistle-like call, but his raucous, ear-grating squawk. Both the titmouse and the chickadee rant this way. They use it to rebuke one another, in my imagination. The scolding I hear this night is different, however. It persists, and it begins to be picked up by more birds. When I hear a badgering, raucous chorus like this, my first thought is that a predator is near, and the birds are joining forces to chew out the intruder. I have seen them berate and even attack a snake that might be going for babies in a nest.

The scolding sound I hear tonight does not indicate to me the presence of an attacking predator, however. It doesn’t seem that threatening. It is more like the sound of a parent chewing out a child. As the chorus adds more voices, I begin to wonder what the object of their attention is. The noise gets louder and more insistent. I turn around in the tub to see what is happening. Is it possible that they are aiming their diatribe at Cecil the cat? I had seen him in the vicinity a little earlier. He’d be a perfect target for such a diatribe.

I spot several birds flitting around in the branches of a white pine just above the tub. They are working themselves into a fine lather, and seem to be directing their attention down towards the ground, under the tree. I follow their gaze and there’s Cecil, lying placidly and immobile. Turning back to the birds, I can see that nearly a dozen titmice are gathered on the lowest branch of the pine, fluttering around and squawking loudly. Is Cecil really the target of their tirade? I look at him again, noticing that he is absolutely ignoring them, as if they did not exist. He’s completely unaffected by the raucous group.

I turn again to the birds. I notice that as they chatter, they look down at him with baleful stares (OK, I may be reading something into their demeanor, but it sure looks that way). Their raspy chorus rises in intensity even more. As I tune into them, I begin to notice that their pulses of noise come into sync with each other—like the vibratos of singers who blend tightly. The scolding pulses periodically surge in a hypnotic manner, drawing me deep into their chatter. It seems to build and sustain itself for a long time. I am getting woozy from the spellbinding sound.

I look back towards Cecil. How is he reacting? He appears to notice absolutely nothing, as if the only inhabitants of this corner of the woods are himself (his royal self) and me.

The birds, meantime, are really getting into it, as if participating in an old-time, call-and-response revival meeting. They spur each other on, encouraging every member to blast out in his best fashion. It’s as if they are trying to outdo each other, to see which one wins the prize for chief denouncer. After a time their chatter slows and even begins to break up a bit.

As their rebuke fades, one bird insistently begins anew, pushing on his comrades once again to take up the challenge. It’s as if he was saying, “Don’t stop, brothers! This cat must be dealt with. We must chew his ass into shreds, comrades! We must put him down, tell him off. Remember when he attacked Brother Fred a few days ago? We must let him know that he cannot escape our wrath. Make him realize his lowliness, lying down there in the dirt, while we superior creatures fly about up here in the heavens. To the ramparts! Let us fling our sarcastic arrows at him until he repents or slinks away in shame!”

Meanwhile, Cecil lies there, unperturbed, acting as if the tree is empty. I envy his ability to ignore them. Soon the intensity of their tirade fades once again. One final attempt is made by the titmouse provocateur. “Don’t stop, brothers! He’s beginning to feel intimidated by us. We must persevere. Look, I saw him glance at me out of the corner of his eye. We’re getting to him. Don’t stop! I can see him begin to tense up and worry. Go after him! Chew out his feline butt!”

But the brotherhood begins to weary. Other distractions come to their wee bird brains. The “wiser” ones realize that they’re just wasting their beautiful voices on a stupid cat. It’s time to move on. Maybe a few more bugs can be caught and eaten before dark fully descends. One by one, they depart the battle scene. The last couple of birds sling one final shot at Cecil, then depart.

As they scatter, I imagine one bird saying to the others (realizing the ephemeral nature of their brotherhood), “Well, that was great fun. The cat’s been humiliated. Did you see how I told him off? Man, I was BAD! It was great to band together with you guys again and face the enemy. But now we must go our ways. My chick is waiting. And any of you guys get the idea to go after her, your ass is grass! Hear?”