View from the North 40: Ugly creature is as ugly does

Having spent last week’s column bemoaning man’s inhumanity to the ugly creatures of the world, I must confess that my husband, John, and I are no less guilty of our own prejudices in favor of beautiful creatures.

Of course, we have justification. Humans always do for their blatant acts of inhumanity. In our world, ugly is as ugly does.

The common pigeon, for example, is quite lovely in all its variations of color and markings, but the droppings, well, I imagine some level of hell is just a constant rainfall of pigeon poo.

They befoul everything, but one of their favorite nesting perches is directly above the gate I use to enter the barn twice a day — on the end I have to grab to open it. They white-wash it in a near-constant flow of pigeon droppings.

Nothing says good morning and have a nice day quite like starting your day with a handful of bird droppings.

Fortunately for us, in the past decade or so every time the pigeon numbers have gotten unbearably high a pair of ravens has showed up and enforced the circle of life on them — reducing their numbers and inspiring the survivors to pack up and move to a less threatening neighborhood with fewer thugs.

I’m praying for ravens these days.

The starlings, with their yellow beak and fetching iridescent black feathers, have twice moved in by the hundreds, chasing away the other birds, stealing our sleep and running down our property values with their raucous, frat-boy ways.

In this case, it hasn't taken much to persuade the gangs to leave, but for years one nesting pair would invade a hole in the shop wall and spend the better part of the summer messing on the siding and assaulting our ears with their cackles and cries.

When we took over use of the shop, which was also a favorite long-time home for a few nesting pairs of barn swallows, my husband vowed no more birds messing up the place.

It was a nice sentiment.

It took a few years to convince the regulars he was serious — and one year a clever pair of robins figured out how to use the cat door, then spent the summer nesting on the chain hoist that was regularly moved up and down its 40-foot track.

Eventually, though, peace and pooplessness reigned in the shop.

Until this summer.

A pair of Say’s phoebes, one of our favorite bird species, moved in.

Rather than raving about the mess and the annoyance. John said he felt like they were “blessing” the shop. Yes, he said blessing and in the context that the birds approved of our remodeling part of the shop into a home. So, yes, he was happy that the birds were anointing our home with poop.

Once the little ones spread their wings, they spread their mess, too. The place looked like a bombing range with the pickup being a favorite heavy artillery target.

Not one complaint came from my husband, the bird exterminator. He even started leaving the door open all night because the youngsters weren‘t always “in bed” by the time he quit working in the evening.

No complaints came, that is, until a few weeks ago when he said: “I just spent the last 45 minutes chasing two stinkin’ pigeons out of the shop!” Then ended the comment with this: “But the phoebes are OK and settled for the night.”

Right. I would wax sarcastic about this contradiction, but I'm no better.

I let a spider grow from babyhood to adulthood above my bathroom medicine cabinet for my own National Geographic home-experience. She was such an efficient and fierce little bug killer and a very tidy roommate. I couldn’t kill her.

Every night she would rush to dispatch bugs caught in her little web. Every morning their bundled carcasses would be dropped in the sink for me to wash away, and her web would be refreshed and new.

I even herded home-invading insects her way. It was a harmonious relationship for almost two months.

Then a friend posted a message that she had to go to the doctoring after getting a horrible rash while gardening. But the rash turned out to be 80 bites from microscopic baby spiders after she walked into a hatching nest of them. Yes, 80 spider bites in one go.

No amount of joking that she would turn into Spiderwoman with 80-times the superpowers made that less creepy.

I grabbed a fly swatter, ruthlessly gathered up my little spider and banished her to a quiet, sheltered place outside.

(That's how we roll at [email protected].)