Birds Of A Feather.

I had suffered from Ornithophobia, a fear of birds, from a very early age. Even as a toddler my mother told me I’d have to be removed from the room when the budgie was let out for its cage to be cleaned.

To be honest, I think it was Pteronophobia, which is a fear of feathers. If birds had fur instead of feathers I might not have minded them so much, whereas a feather, attached to a bird or not, could send me into hysterics.

My brother, nearly two years older than myself, had no such fears. In fact he loved birds, had books about them and, to my horror, collected feathers. The ones he prized the most, which also happened to be the biggest, he displayed on his wall. They were more effective at keeping his little sister out of his room than any kind of lock and key!

We did not live far from London, and sometimes my whole family would travel down there together. It did not always go smoothly. If we came upon a group of pigeons, large or small, that would be it – I would refuse to walk through them. Luckily, at that time the streets were not quite so full of traffic, making it easier for one of my parents to take me across the road until the pigeons were safely behind us.

When I saw the Alfred Hitchcock movie, ‘The Birds’, things got worse. I’d have nightmares for weeks and became exceedingly anxious should any bird come near to the house windows. Looking back, it sounds stupid, but at the time my fear was very real.

It was not only birds that I had to avoid. How often have you come across a feather laying on the side-walk? I would cross the road rather than walk by these discarded bits of plumage. If the day was windy and the feather was moving, I’d be forced to turn back and find an alternative route. Either that, or go home in defeat.

As I got older I’d like to say that the fear lessened but it did not. I just became a master of avoidance strategies. A dead bird at the beach would ruin my day. I could not walk where the sea had left seaweed and shells and way too many gull feathers which my brother would happily gather up.

Our house was almost next door to a woods. Luckily my parents were understanding and would remove any errant feathers that landed in or around the garden. If no one else was home, I’d simply stay indoors should there be so much as a sign of a floating feather.

In spite of my phobia I have spent the bulk of my life living in rural areas, relying on family members to get rid of the offending feathers. Those from crows were a particular problem. Big, black, and obvious against the green grass, they would force me to find some way to put a good distance between them and my feet.

And then, about ten years ago, something happened that change everything. I walked outside our door and across the yard and came to a dead stop. There was something on the ground next to the porch. Something black and white and covered with feathers. Something that moved in the breeze.

I had a moment of absolute panic before dashing across the yard and back inside the house, slamming the door behind me. No one was there to take a look and, if necessary, to move it so it would have to stay there. That was what I decided, but at the time we had two cats and four kittens. What if the magpie, for that was what it was, had been poisoned? What if other birds came and launched an attack? Feel free to roll your eyes at that, but I honestly believed that there was a very real risk of that happening.

There was no choice, I had to go out there again. I was hoping that the magpie had just been stunned and had recovered while I was indoors. I opened the door and ran across the yard, not daring to look until I’d put adequate distance between myself and where it had been.

It was still there, the only movement from the effects of the wind.

With boots, gloves and hat firmly in place, and a long-handled shovel in my hands, I took a few tentative steps towards the magpie. Nothing happened, so I took a deep breath and another two steps. I’m tempted to lie and say I made steady progress across the yard, but it was more of a case of two steps forward and one step back until I found myself shovel distance from the bird.

Was it alive? That was what I needed to find out. Reaching out, I let the shovel make contact and then recoiled. Putting my free hand over my eyes, I peered through my fingers, silently pleading for it to get to its feet and fly away. The body lay still.

Okay, I told myself, I’ll dig a hole. Maybe, by the time I’d finished, someone would be there to take over.

No such luck! I waited, the minutes ticking by, but the kittens were sniffing around and I really couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer. Wrapping a scarf around my face so the only part of me left uncovered was my eyes, I made my approach. This time I was a bit less gentle with the shovel. No matter how great my fear of birds, of feathers, was, I would not bury something that might still be alive.

My hands were shaking and my teeth were chattering as a cold sweat ran down my spine. Yes, this is true. I was terrified, but no longer quite petrified. I eased the shovel under the body and lifted it. Only the fear of having to go through this entire process again allowed me to get that shovel to the hole I’d dug. I lowered the shovel, pushing the bird until every feather was inside the gap. I couldn’t get the earth back in that hole quick enough.

When I had finished, the shock really hit home. I could not stop shaking. In the back of my mind there remained the fear that other crows might retaliate, that they would blame me and single me out for some kind of corvid retribution.

Of course, nothing happened. But actually it did. Something changed in me, and, quite quickly, I became less afraid of feathers. For a while I’d still do my best to avoid them, but it was no longer a case of make or break. Pigeon feathers, crow feathers... I can now walk past them all and have actually picked up a feather or two.

That magpie, in its death, helped me conquer a phobia that had lasted for more than half a century and had caused me both distress and inconvenience.

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