Bird Flu

Bird Flu is again in the news, and it brings to mind the last big outbreak that we saw in California. My mother always kept birds. Chickens, ducks, geese, turkeys and the occasional feral peacock that would take up residence with the back yard birds, perhaps for company, more likely for the guarantee of a nightly meal. These were not “meat” birds as my 9th grade Agricultural Studies teacher anointed them. The birds my mother kept were supposedly for eggs, but in actuality were pets, just as were the sheep she bought for its chocolate wool and the 250-pound pig she had that was supposed to be a “teacup” pig.

When I was a very young child, she would sell ducklings and goslings through ads in the local paper, $5 for ducklings, $10 for goslings. We collected eggs from the chickens for food, but chickens are wily and would find hiding places that we had not thought of. Occasionally you would find a horrible smelling nest full of eggs that were likely to burst if you dared attempt to move them. We would keep hen chicks or pullets, but it never failed that we would end up with at least one rooster in the bunch. One year Mom bought some Araucana chicks because she had heard that they lay colored eggs, and we ended up with a rooster who was territorial and would fly up and attempt to gouge your face if you dared step out the back door. We gifted that flying demon to some friends down the street who were into, let’s say, alternative entertainment. About a week later we were informed that he was just too mean, and we were invited over for a chicken dinner.

Geese were usually aggressive, at least the males, and a trip out to the bird pens meant keeping your eyes and ears open for the telltale “flap, flap, flap” of geese feet sneaking up behind you. When I was about four years old my parents and the neighbor built a concrete duck pond that was essentially just concrete smoothed out to the edges of a hole my dad dug in the ground. While the pond was being worked on “grandpa goose”, one of a male-female pair of African Grey geese, snuck up and grabbed me by the skin near my belly button. My mother used to say that he seemed determined to keep me, as I screamed furiously, and my dad beat him off with the handle of the hoe he had been using to push wet concrete around. That was not the last encounter with a grey goose with a bit of attitude. In high school “Heckle” another male from a pair of African Greys came “sneaking” up behind me, feet flapping the ground. I quickly turned and grabbed him by the neck behind his head to push him away. Too late I realized, I had grabbed too low. He managed to twist his head to my forearm, get a good grip in his serrated bill, and proceed to beat the hell out of me with his wings. Bruised and covered in feathers, I vowed to never try to grab a goose again. When I see young mothers with their children in the park getting close to the geese, I have to suppress an urge to run toward them screaming, “GEESE ARE MEAN!” Honestly, they are latent dinosaurs with a craving for violence, geese are not your friends.

The year that the bird flu came to the Antelope Valley we had heard stories that the inspectors were culling entire flocks if one bird tested positive. A man down the street lost a flock of Peacocks, literally thousands of dollars in birds, the feed store was buzzing with rumors of men in suits coming in and indiscriminately killing all the chickens of a customer because one of his hens appeared ill. This seemed outrageous to my mother; that she would have to submit her birds to testing and possibly lose her flock. She did not work in commercial bird farms or visit commercial farms. She did not sell stock to any Farmer John Chicken processors, and our birds did not fly. But, as it seems to be with birds, the birds from the sky would come down and mingle with our back yard birds, and I guess the county decided that perhaps those wild birds would contract bird flu from a back yard flock and then fly over a commercial farm and contaminate it with their shit bombs from above. Since Mom was so against having her birds tested, she purposely would “not be home” during the times that she knew the abatement crews were in the area. They could not come onto your property and test your birds without you being there, so she kept them at bay for some time this way.

The morning that they finally caught up with us I imagine my mom was at her kitchen table smoking a cigarette and drinking her coffee. Watching out the window she likely said a curse or two as they pulled up. She described the scene as a truck full of Department of Agriculture workers pulling up to the fence and getting out of the cab. They seemed afraid of the dogs and stood awkwardly at the gate waiting. She went out to meet them and after a protracted argument, finally, reluctantly she agreed to let them come in and test her flock.

They donned their white plastic hazmat style suits complete with face shields and booties and followed her to the back yard, where I imagine they expected birds kept in neat, organized coops. Or perhaps they didn’t know what to expect exactly, given this was the high desert of Los Angeles County. I imagine though, that they were still surprised when they were met by a wandering menagerie of chickens, ducks, and geese who, at the sight of the men in their fancy suits, immediately flew into a panic. Mom said, “You can test one, if you can catch it”, and proceeded to watch as these “wildlife professionals” ran around her back yard tripping over discarded car parts, roofing, and other building materials in their hot plastic hazmat suits. It was probably around 90 degrees that day and finally after an hour mom said, “Stop it you are stressing the birds”, walked over to a rather fat chicken, picked it up and handed it to one of the men. I have no doubt that the entire scene was amusing for her. Standing at the back door with iced coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, watching these guys run around, frustratedly attempting to catch chickens who were faster and cleverer. The worker took a sample from this chicken offering, declared the chicken to be flu free, and handed it back. I am fairly sure they were supposed to check more than one bird, but they were covered in bird shit, feathers, and dirt and probably needed a nap and a stiff drink after that.

In the last few years of mom’s life, she wound down the back yard flock. Pete the Peacock dropped dead one night; his girlfriend Perdita left us for greener pastures. Mom stopped keeping geese and ducks after some dogs got in the yard and killed most of them, she stopped keeping chickens and turkeys after a large cat came in night after night and stole one out into the darkness. It was a sign of a changing environment. Where my parents had a thriving vegetable garden complete with fruit and nut trees, as well as some other plants that landed them on the 5 o’clock news one year, there was nothing but dried hard scrabble dirt, dust, and weeds. The drought had not just dried up most of the vegetation on the valley floor, the mountains were also dry. Dry mountains mean less mule deer, and less mule deer equals hungry mountain lions and bobcats that come further and further into civilization looking for food. Pugsley the turkey was the last to go, following his bestie Wednesday after she was taken one night in the dry dark spring.

My mom always said that when she died, she wanted to come back as a seagull. She admired their tenaciousness and bold behavior. I think she liked that they seem to live their lives just as they want, without any rules or even any concern for predators. They walk right up to humans on the beach and steal your sandwich because, “Fuck you Susan, that’s my sandwich now”. She would often give them names like, “Uncle Fred” and would cackle as she watched them harass people trying to have picnics.

I read an article that stated entire flocks of migrating birds are succumbing to the flu this year. Birds in my own neighborhood seem scarce. The idiot sparrow birds that like to build nests in the gutter above my front door are eerily quiet, and the dogs have not been harassed by a Stellar Jay all spring. I still like to think that mom is out in the universe somewhere, reincarnated as a seagull, frustrating officials, stealing Cheetos from the fingers of children, and laughing her ass off at the ridiculousness of it all. Or perhaps she is just somewhere watching over a flock of fat chickens, giving them some sage advice on how to avoid the man.