Mourning Doves Made Me Trendy

As any good journalist (and most really bad ones) knows, if something happens once, it’s interesting. If it occurs more than three times, it’s a trend. So it’s official: according to the LA Times, The Washington Post and the New York Times, birding is a thing. A big deal. I’m sure if I read the tabloids I’d discover all sorts of celebrities doing it.

Okay then.

I’ve never been a serious birder. I own a pair of binoculars, but I use them mostly for watching horse races. Nor have I never visited to any of the big spots on the migratory routes but I do know that there are four central flyways that birds use. They are creatively named the Pacific Flyway, the Central Flyway, the Mississippi Flyway, and the Atlantic Flyway. 

That’s all I got.

I do like birds. I have always had a least one pair of canaries. One of my current duo was born at my house. That’s a first – canaries are terrible parents. If they manage to hatch a chick they often knock it out of the nest and then ignore it. Nice.

While devoted ornithologists travel the world in search of rarities like the Ivory-Billed Woodpeck or the Bahama Nuthatch, my birding is primarily done out my window. I don’t even have a seed feeder for songbirds because Brittanys are bird dogs, and it seem cruel to both the birds and the dogs to set one up.

I do have two hummingbird feeders. Three years ago, my now- resident male Anna’s Hummingbird (or maybe it’s a Rufous Hummingbird. They look exactly alike to me) drove away the almost dozen other bitty birds noshing at me feeders by attacking them relentlessly. Hummingbirds are MEAN! Now I’m down to one pair: him and this year’s lady. They are gorgeous and tame enough to squawk around my head when they think I’m late with their fresh juice.

I am also super fond of Mourning Doves. They are very common, but they make me happy. They coo cheerfully, they mate for life and are just pleasant to have around. Some become quite tame.

Bright, they are not. They make chickens look like Einstein.

At my former house there was an overhang by the back door. It had a single four-inch wide support beam for the roof. That narrow precipice apparently screamed “home” to a pair of young Mourning Doves. They would bring a single stick and carefully place it on the plank. Then they’d look at each other and their work approvingly, and fly off excitedly, knocking it down.  Every single time.

After I discovered a huge pile of sticks on the ground I gave in and nailed up a platform for them. Almost instantly they moved it and built their nest. I swear they didn’t notice what I’d done.

They were not thrilled that the nest was above the back door, but by the time they laid their eggs, they stopped panicking and knocking the nest down every time we came opened it.  They would simply scold us as we passed. That worked.

By the time they returned for a third year in a row, (the female had a distinctive scar, so I could recognize her among the billion or so Doves in my neighborhood), they ignored us completely. The babies (there were always two) grew up with us and probably thought we were funny looking member of their flock.

I never saw fledglings. One day there were noisy, begging birds in the nest, the next it was deserted.

In Chatsworth I have at least one large flock of Doves that roost in my giant pine trees.  Unfortunately for all of us, there is also a huge hawk of some sort. (Maybe a red-tail – according to my Audubon app, they live around here. But it could be any kind.) I just know it’s big, and hungry.

Mourning Doves are fat, juicy and dumb. Circle of life.

More than once I’ve heard a kafuffle in the tree, seen feathers rain down and the hawk land on a nearby pole with the unfortunate bird in its talons. I understand that mice are difficult prey, but it would be nice if the hawk would vary its diet occasionally.

The other day when I let the dogs out Fiona caused a major traffic jam by slamming on her brakes. (Literally the three other dogs crashed into her. My own version of the 405.) She was staring into the little front garden which is surrounded by goat fencing to keep the dogs from digging the plants up.

It took me a minute to locate them -their coloring is camouflage perfect- but I finally noticed two very young, very scared fledgling Mourning Doves. They had obviously just left, or fallen out of, their nest. They were huddled as close to each other as possible, their wings were still spotty and were half the size of a grown bird.  Their mama was on the roof screaming at them. Occasionally they would flap their wings weakly.

It was a very hot day and I worried they would fry, but that garden is pretty scraggly and only gets late afternoon sun. Still, I put a bowl of sugar water out for them. It scared them, and they ran through the holes in the fence onto the driveway. They came back in when I walked away.

Phew.

I named them Bert and Ernie.

The plan was to just leave them the heck alone and make sure the dogs only went out in the backyard. That way they’d be safe.

But since they are Mourning Doves they didn’t follow the directions. That evening around dusk I went out to throw some trash out. The birds were waddling around far from the safety of the fenced garden.

Sunset is prime hawk feeding time, so I tried to shoo them back into the ‘pen.’ Much to my surprise – and theirs too from the look of shock on their faces – this time when they flapped their wings they took flight.

One ended up on the roof with its parent. The other made it to the fence line.

I sighed with relief. Bert and Ernie were their parent’s problem again.

By morning they were back.

That night they left again, and I realized my garden was their safe zone. The dogs, even Poppy the Brittany ignored them and all was good.

Until the next day. That morning Bert came back alone. He was terrified. I suspect Ernie became hawk food.

This was our new routine. Bert left at dusk and fluttered back to the garden every morning.

Two days ago when I went to get the paper (yes, I still get a print paper) he was perching, somewhat drunkenly on the gate. He let me get quite close before he weaved into the garden and tucked in for the day.

He spent his days nibbling grass and bugs and snoozing. You had to look really closely to see him, but he was there.

Every day he got a little bigger. Yesterday afternoon he flew out to meet his parents on the tree and didn’t return. I miss him, but who knows, maybe he’ll come back next year with his own family.

I guess I’ve become a birder. Which is exactly the first time I’ve ever been on trend.