While walking to work the last couple of days a completely insane bird has repeatedly swooped down on me as I crossed the street in front of my house. I was able to get a picture of the offending bird, which I'm including with this blog, and plan to forward to the bird police. Look at the bird, you can tell it’s crazy.
I’m really fed up with the bird, and his or her inappropriate, aggressive behavior. I know I could avoid the bird by sneaking quickly into my car, but I would prefer to confront the bird directly and help him or her understand that I harbor no ill will towards birds nor toward him or her in particular. Nor do I wish to climb a tree and disturb the nest which I assume he or she is protecting in a preemptive strike on my head.
The first couple of times the bird swooped down on me and tried to peck me to death, I responded nonviolently, saying nice things to it like “Don’t worry, I’m not out to get your nest or your babies or whatever it is you’re trying to protect.” After the third time this same bird attacked me, I couldn't help wondering if the bird had childhood trauma related to a nest intrusion. For all I know, the bird was extremely sensitive because another man, suspiciously resembling me, had done something deeply upsetting, making the bird irrationally sensitive about my being near its nest.
Either way, the bird in front of my house needs therapy to get in touch with the source of its anger. Also, I’ve stopped walking quite so close to the bird’s tree because I don’t want to cause the bird any more stress or to contribute to its victim complex.
When I got to work I let some of the staff at Red Room know about what happened and my coworker here, Huntington Sharp, told me that Red Room Author Sam Barry had recently written a blog about bird attacks, and that another coworker, Charles Purdy, had commented on that blog reporting that he also had recently been attacked by a bird. It seems that we have quite a few birds here in San Francisco who need counseling.
While checking the internet about the identity of the bird who attacked me, or to at least narrow the field, I found that yet another bird that lives here in San Francisco has been lashing out at other passersby. The bird was caught on tape. Whether it’s Sam’s bird, Charles’s bird, or my bird, I sense a pattern here. The birds are acting out their deep-seated childhood shame on our heads. I’ve decided not to report my bird to the bird police. I decided to just scatter therapists’ business cards along the sidewalk under the nest as I run to my car.