Woodpeckers are such total losers
Ok, maybe not all woodpeckers are losers. But the one that’s been pounding on our gutters at the break of dawn for two weeks most certainly is.
Our loser is a northern flicker, described as having a black or red mustache extending from the beak to below the eyes. If I were him, I’d blame the mustache for his failure to attract a female from this side of 1970, but what do I know? Maybe he’s never seen himself. Besides, my sole attempt at matchmaking in nature has been centered on the sex lives of squash. Maybe our mustacheo-ed friend is more complex than your average gourd, dating-wise, that is.
Running on no sleep, fueled by a caffeine+sudafed buzz, I hit the internet. Turns out that this particular ‘pecker was “drumming.” Drumming is a territorial act. It serves to warn other woodpeckers and also to attract a mate. Because nothing says sex like the drum of a jackhammer at dawn…
Well, it wasn’t working. No ladies appeared to convince Romeo to stop with the pounding and get to the pounding, if you know what I mean. And since Romeo’s lack of success was causing severe distress amongst those of us on the receiving end of the metal clanging, action was required.
I found this nugget online–
Federal law protects woodpeckers, so killing them can be a difficult option.
Um, call me a pacifist, but shouldn’t killing always be a difficult option? The site continued:
…the US Fish & Wildlife Service can grant a permit for $25 for you to use lethal methods.
Not to put to fine a point on it, but aren’t all killing options lethal? Perhaps they meant legal, but I don’t know. The idea of killing a guy just because he’s striking out with the ladies didn’t sit well with me. There had to be a better way.
And there was: mirrors. A mirror, I read, would challenge the territory of our feathered Romeo, and send him packing. Either that, or it would afford him a nice long look at that mustache and convince him to make the necessary changes to become luckier at love.
And so it came to pass that Dave climbed to the roof and prepared for battle, armed with nothing more than a ball of twine and an old vanity mirror:
I write the happy conclusion of this little vignette fresh from 8 hours of sleep. We are the champions, my friends. With nothing more than smoke and mirrors, we triumphed over that little pecker.
And we all slept happily ever after.