Understanding Woody

Yesterday morning in Orange City, a robin woke me with window pecking. Every spring for ten years since the house where we spent the weekend was built, a robin has tried repeatedly to reclaim its nesting space—and failed. Is it the same robin or second-generation robin, the nesting location imprinted its brain? I don't know.

I do know I prefer its gentle pecks to Woody's dive-bombing the patio doors of our Pella home. Since October of last year, a red-bellied woodpecker has regularly attacked our patio doors with a loud ka-thunk--a sharp “ka” when his beak hits and a “thunk” when his belly does. On impact he spews the glass with black and white streams.

He remains airborne, reverses direction, and perches on the grill cover or patio chair until he gathers strength to try again, first on one pane, then another.

The attacks are new this year, so I know he’s not attempting to re-establish a nest. Our house has claimed this territory for 20 years.

At first I thought he was angry about empty bird feeders, so I re-filled them. Woody attacked with a full belly, spewing even longer rivulets.

Friends told us bluebirds had attacked their panes when they saw movement in the house, defending their territory from invasion. Our bird attacks even empty rooms.

According to an online source, male woodpeckers attack windows during mating season, mistaking their reflection for competing males. But the mating season is spring, not fall.

Failing in diagnosis, I treat the symptoms. I splatter yellow post-its on the panes without success. I tie a helium balloon to the patio chair and succeed too well. Every neighborhood songbird is scared away from the re-filled feeders.

I remove the balloon. Both songbirds and attacks return.

My hairdresser once told me about an owl who window-peeked on them each evening, moving from perch to perch around the house to peer into the room they occupied. One rainy evening, attempting a better view, the owl chose highlines—and electrocution. Our backyard has no highlines.

My husband grumbles. He scrubs the grill cover while I wash windows. “Dumb bird,” he says. But Woody's not birdbrained. He remembers where the feeders are and how to build a nest.

For months I fail to find a better diagnosis. Then, one winter day while reading pop psychology I find a description of Woody— “repeating the same behavior over and over and expecting different results.”

It's an electrifying discovery. Woody's not stupid. He's neurotic!

The attacks are continuing this spring, but I'm not repeating my well-worn defences, expecting different results.

For avian neurosis, at least, there has been no documented case of bird-to-human transmission.