From a distance, birds are fun to watch.
Over the years, my attitude toward birds has migrated, in kind of the same way geese migrate in the fall: south.
Birds, regardless of size, are probably the most striking of wild creatures because, though they generally need to have a measure of camouflage, their ability to fly allows them a bit of flash. A ring-necked pheasant rooster, with its white collar and green head is a good example of a mostly camo bird with just a dash of flash. From the ring down, the rooster has the look of a pile of leaves; hen pheasants are all camo. In a lot of ways, pheasants are like the land-bound versions of mallard ducks: males with greenish heads and ringed necks, hens straight camo.
This flash in the wild is especially pronounced in many smaller birds: cardinals, gold finches, blue birds and even robins, to name a few that accent the wilds and back yards of these parts. Other bigger birds have characteristics that make them stand out where other creatures of similar size are hiding in the brush. Kingfishers have a striking pose, a loud call and are not particularly afraid of people. Same goes for great blue herons, which stand nearly as tall as a person and aren't particularly worried about people until they get within a dozen or so yards. Eagles, hawks, crows and even Canada geese will stand their ground for a lot longer than a rabbit, raccoon or deer.
I fondly recall an incident from the days when my daughter, now in her teens, was just up and about on two feet. In a little grassy basin in a park, half a dozen crows (a murder, if you will) were milling about. My child ran toward them, getting their attention. It appeared they were puzzled about her size, and were waiting to see if she was small enough to eat. When they realized she wasn't, they gave a few hops and flew a few yards away. Apparently, something else in the little grassy spot had caught their attention.
When I was a kid, I mistook the brash attitude and flashy look of birds for personality. Add to this the strange reality that parrots and a few other birds (curiously ravens and crows) can talk, and I was prepared to believe it was possible to have a Dr. Doolittle relationship with a bird, if only I could catch one.
It was pointed out to me that if you can put salt on a bird's tail you can catch it. It didn't occur to me until I was well into my teens that if you can get close enough to a bird to put salt on its tail, you can catch it, even if you don't have any salt. Still, when I was a boy, I tried, convinced that if I could catch a robin or grackle, I'd be able to teach it to talk and it would reveal to me the secrets of flight.
Then I met a parrot. I've since met several and they're all the same. They have the blank stare of a doll and, though they may be chattering away as though they know what they're saying, what they're thinking is: "I'd sure like some more food."
To me, it is possible to have a more meaningful conversation with a dog. At least a dog looks like it's trying to understand what's going on.
Furthermore, you can actually communicate with a dog and it'll do what you ask, as long as what you ask is that it bring a bird back to you or point one out in the brush. A buddy of mine has his dog trained to retrieve birds and newspapers out of the driveway. My family's retriever is possibly mis-classified.
Which brings us to the birds these retrievers are apt as not to be going to retrieve: Canada geese. Goose season drew to a close a few weeks back, but there are still plenty of the creatures making a mess in my neighborhood. Like any other vegetarian creature weighing in at six or so pounds, geese generate a lot of bird byproduct and, again, unlike dogs, are not particularly careful about where they leave it, often eating at the same time they're producing.
Mercifully, it'll just be a matter of a few weeks before these oversized pigeons head back to Canada where they can fertilize someone else's yard.