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My childhood bedroom had a Jane Goodall quote on the wall — “My mission is to create a world where we can live in harmony with nature” — and I think this helps explain how I became a person who surrendered five blueberry bushes and my dignity to an angry catbird.
We called her Catherine. The spring when my daughter was 2, Catherine claimed the entire garden beside our house as her domain. I discovered this when we went to pick blueberries from our bushes; as my toddler plucked the fruit, the bird began calling loudly. Then she dived toward me and landed on my headband . I gasped and jumped, startling my daughter.
“What happened?” she asked, and because I wanted to convey a scene that was more Beatrix Potter than Alfred Hitchcock, I said, very calmly: “Mama catbird is asking for some space for her babies! What a good mom! Congratulations on your babies, Catherine!” Then I hurried us away, my daughter cheerfully calling, “Congratulations!” to the bird, who was still shrieking and swooping toward my head.
When we think about living with animals, we might think first about pets — how they teach us empathy, responsibility and patience and shape our daily rhythms. But the wild creatures that inhabit our yards and neighborhoods offer their own lessons in companionship and accountability, and these, too, have become an indelible part of our family life. My daughter’s first words were, “Hi, squirrel!” as she waved to the plump rodent peering in the window. When the white-tailed deer bring their fawns to our yard, we are sure to keep the birdbath full; the nursing mothers are always thirsty. My children greet our garden residents by name: Mariah, the chipmunk, known for her clear, high-pitched vocalizations; Sally, the eastern cottontail rabbit, who nests in the flower bed; Albirdo, the redheaded woodpecker, who rudely banishes all competition from the suet feeder. (“ Share,” my daughter urges him, unsuccessfully.)
Albirdo doesn’t understand that edict, but we try to uphold it. This is the one little patch of Earth over which we have any measure of control, and I want our family to share it thoughtfully with the other beings who belong here — even when those relationships demand a little extra compromise.
My loved ones have come to accept my soft spot for the wildlife forced to adapt to our modern human presence. In an apartment where doves nested above the concrete patio, I set out cushions and towels to soften the landing for fledglings. I once baited a humane mouse trap with parsley and peanut butter and conducted daily releases in a wooded area behind the yard. (Turns out I was releasing just one mouse, who returned day after day, increasingly plump and at ease with our morning routine. My mounting suspicion led me to dot a black Sharpie on the back of his head before he dashed into the underbrush. The next day, I drove Sharpie Mouse to a park several miles away, where I bid him a permanent farewell.)
Others are more skeptical of my devotions. Once, I was circling the perimeter of our house with a termite prevention specialist, and he gestured toward the ivy-covered stump where a magnificent oak once stood. “ That,” he said gravely, “will attract voles or chipmunks to live there.” “I know!” I gushed. I think he realized I was a lost cause.
Catherine sensed my weakness, too. She harvested the majority of our blueberries that first year; I didn’t dare challenge her. The next year, I tried to net the bushes — but she built her nest within the netting, so I gave up and took it down. Every time my husband passed by to take the trash out, she divebombed him. Still, I couldn’t bear to banish her.
In our third year as neighbors, when it came time for me to plant my dahlias in the raised bed — squarely in Catherine’s territory — I knew I’d need protection. I dug my old horseback-riding helmet out of the closet.
“Where are you going?” my daughter asked.
“ To plant the flowers,” I told her, snapping the chinstrap like a soldier headed to battle with a 1.2-ounce enemy.
I joked that Catherine was my nemesis. But one day, as I sat working at the dining room table, I heard the terrible whump of a bird colliding with glass. I glanced up just in time to see a shadow drop into the shrub below the window.
When I dashed outside, I was bereft to find the limp body of a catbird cradled by azalea leaves. It can’t be her, I thought, but I was terrified it was. I was overwhelmed with guilt; for all my efforts, our coexistence with our wild neighbors remained fragile, imbalanced. I admired the birds through the same windows that tricked them with the illusion of open sky.
I laid the little body in the underbrush. I pasted more bird-deterrent decals to the windows and kept an anxious watch for Catherine.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long. When I stepped onto the back porch that evening, she was perched on a nearby branch, glaring at me through the screen. I’d never been happier to hear her shrill, outraged mewing.
“I’m so glad to see you!” I cried.
Ehhhhhhh! Catherine warned.
My daughter, drawn by the noise, poked her head through the open door. “Is she okay?” she asked, eyeing the bird. “What’s she saying?”
“She’s fine,” I said. “She’s just reminding us: This is her home, too.”
Caitlin Gibson is a feature writer focused on families, parenting and children.