‘Howie the House Finch’ does battle with Michelle’s husband — wins her heart
“Get in here and help me, Michelle!”
For the second time in three weeks, my husband was doing battle with a bird. As usual, the bird was winning. Not a big bird. A small but mighty bird. A feisty, male house finch who thinks he owns our front porch.
Step outside and the little guy flies inside. Then all hell breaks loose.
“I can’t believe he did it again!” my husband says, as the bird swoops over his head.
Eventually, the little guy perches in a house plant. He relaxes as my fingers curve around him. I gently release him on the porch.
“I think we should call him Howie,” I tell my husband. “’Cause Howie got here, we don’t know.”
Well, actually we do know. My husband forgot to knock.
If you knock on our front door before exiting, Howie gets annoyed and flies away. Unfortunately, my husband also gets annoyed at having to knock before he leaves the house.
Personally, I think it makes life more interesting.
I grew up with a bird. Not a finch. A gregarious, green parakeet named Herbert. I still recall Herbert wrestling our guinea pig, BoBo, for his lettuce. Poor BoBo had low self esteem.
“You used to handle Herbert all the time,” I told my sister, Melanie, when she called early one morning, frantic that a Carolina wren had somehow gotten into her bedroom.
“I loved Herbert,” she said, nostalgically. “But this bird isn’t Herbert. He’s flying from the bed to the dresser to the picture on the wall. I don’t know how he got here — but I want him out.”
“Just throw a towel over him and take to the ground,” I suggested.
A few minutes later, Melanie returned to the phone panting.
“It’s not working,” she said. “Any other bright ideas?”
I thought for a moment and a light bulb came on.
“It’s a small room,” I said. “Turn out the lights and open a window. If he’s like most birds I’ve known, he’ll head for the sunlight.”
She did. He did. And now it’s a good story to tell.
Howie makes his away to the trees; might become house guest
As for the story of the finch who likes our porch? Well, that also has a happy ending.
Last week, I took down our front door wreath. Since then, Howie has spent more time perching in trees, though he occasionally swoops by our porch for old times’ sake.
“Look! I think that’s Howie on the birdfeeder,” I told my husband, as we sipped our morning coffee and looked out the kitchen window.
“With all the birds out there,” he said, “how can you possibly pick him out?”
“He’s a little redder than the other finches and he’s got a twinkle in his eye.”
“You can’t possibly see his eyes from this far away, Michelle.”
He’s right. Maybe I should invite him inside.
