Are You a Curler or a Magpie?

by Catherine Dilts

I have a “birdbath” on my deck. It’s actually a clay flower pot base set on the railing. Birds like getting a drink there.

I have a theory that being elevated and open makes the birdbath appealing as a safe place to satisfy their thirst and wash their feathers. They can see what’s coming.

Neither my husband nor I are bird watchers. Our identification skills are limited. I know flickers, robins, magpies, jays, hummingbirds, owls, and redtail hawks. Everything else falls into vague categories of those little brown birds, medium-sized black birds, and oh look, that one has yellow feathers mixed in with the brown.

Our fall season has been painfully dry. We’re anxious to receive moisture. Even the snow-averse souls wouldn’t mind some frozen precipitation at this point. The birdbath has been in steady use.

Today I noticed birds lined up on the railing. They weren’t politely taking turns. They were fighting over the birdbath. Diving, feigning attack, flapping wings, and jabbing beaks in threat.

I wanted to tell them we’d refill the container even if they drank it all. We humans have a magical spigot from which we obtain endless quantities of the precious fluid. They would just fly away in a panic if I stepped onto the deck. So I let them fight.

The Battle of the Birdbath made me think about human competitiveness. Some is good. My husband and I have become fans of curling, which is an Olympic sport. We have yet to try our hands at the sport. Maybe we never will. But we’ve become fascinated with watching people push a heavy, round stone across the ice. Then teammates scramble to brush at the ice with little brooms in attempts to affect speed, and to direct the stone a certain route.

The stakes are high. We watched the finals to decide which team goes on to the Olympics. A sport doesn’t get much more high-stakes than deciding who will represent their country in front of the entire planet. Yet curling seems so . . . civilized. The team chatter is polite. There is no physical contact.

Curling athletes behave better than the birds on my deck.

Any sport could have a dark underbelly, I suppose. I examine the competitiveness of elite dressage and jumping equestrians in book three of my Rose Creek Mystery series, The Body in the Hayloft (available December 1^st). My research led me down a path examining potential drugging of show horses. What drugs are used? Is this prevalent or rare?

What can drive a human to be so competitive that they become deadly? Even the birds clamoring over their precious water source only bluff and bluster. There are no feathered bodies on the deck.

I’m afraid I do behave like a sparrow fighting for a place at the bird bath at times. I would like to be more like a curler athlete. Steady. Focused. Kind.

I'll get started on my self-improvement project, right after I refill the birdbath.