The Bird Who Owns Church Street

My mother, a farm girl, was more interested in chickens than birds.

But she loved robins and always commented: “They might not be beauties to most people, but they’re nice. There’s a politeness about them.”

Then came her next bird observation: “They’re not like those awful blue jays, always making a racket and barging in.” She’d shake her head and shoulders over the insult of these irritating creatures.

She took their presence personally.

I’ve seen it myself. All kinds of birds gather amicably at our bird bath. None flinch over the arrival of a robin. But let a blue jay land, and they all scatter.

So the other day, Maria and I walked in the neighborhood with no particular destination in mind. I let her leisurely sniff the trail of a squirrel or a previous dog. As we passed the Presbyterian church at the alley entrance, a commotion erupted. A woman walked two “slipper dogs,” as I call them. They’re small with long hairdos. They barked at us and strained against their leashes. She tugged at them with one hand because her other hand held a device whose screen seemed thoroughly mesmerizing. Maria and I moved on.

For reasons unclear to me, the grass by the post office holds an irresistible appeal to Maria. After she investigated each blade, we headed back down Church Street.

Passing us on the other side, those same dogs started in again. They leaped and lunged and growled at us. The woman jerked their leashes as her long hair whipped back and forth, a parallel image to their own flapping manes and tails. Her earbud cord flipped in the air as the hand holding her device struggled to keep the screen at eye level.

“Jesus!” she squawked at us, right in front of the Methodist parsonage. “Take that dog  somewhere!”

That’s when I saw she wore bright blue. Of course. A pushy blue jay.

If she’d paid attention, she’d have noticed which way we went at our alley meeting and could have avoided us since we clearly disturbed her dogs. That’s what I do when I detect a dog who sends Maria into distress. But she didn’t bother.

What was I thinking? It was our responsibility to scatter. Who were we to stroll through their territory like a pair of peacocks?

Maria and I stood there, silently observing the frantic show of yapping and yanking and yelling. Then, two robins that we were, we headed home.

To 24 East Church Street.

Where we belonged.

(Written in honor of my mother Betty, who would have turned 94 today. If only.)