...started fearing for my life each time I went outside.

We warned my mother it would be this way.

Since we moved up into the mountains, she's had a fascination with the wildlife. I can't blame her; many people don't get to see turkeys, deer, bears, foxes, chipmunks, elk, and all manner of birds within an hour or two (possibly with a lynx, vulture, or feral cat to top things off). We're host to many beautiful animals, and I do enjoy staring at them and taking their pictures. My mother, however, is not content to enjoy from afar. She must feed things.

For the most part, this doesn't bother me. We avoid feeding predators (except for that one fox that tried to give me rabies), and generally the other animals are pleasant (except now I have a grudge against deer). There are few things better than watching the turkeys come running when they hear corn or than having jays and chickadees flutter around you. Feeding chipmunks and ground squirrels just happens to be the most adorable thing possible.

So while I think my mother goes a bit overboard with her insistence we give the turkeys or deer corn every time we see them, mostly I don't mind being on friendly terms with the fauna. Mostly. You see, something has changed.

The chickadees are out for blood.

I realize it looks all innocent there. For a long time they appeared to be our friends, these tiny birds with their bright little eyes. They were so timid, preferring to snatch peanuts while we weren't looking. Then they observed the chipmunks and realized they could just land on our hands and we wouldn't kill them. Sometimes they would peer in our kitchen windows, asking if we could come out to play.

I should have seen the warning signs. I should have realized their incessant early morning calls of "chickadeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedee" were not friendly greetings, but actually a call to battle. I should realized they were not peaking in our windows with friendly curiosity, but that they were actually plotting and scoping out our defenses.

And now it's too late. Our beloved little birds are trying to kill us all.

I went out to get some wood this morning, which means I was approximately 7 inches from my front door, still on the porch. I always figured there was some magical rule about how things can't attack you on the porch, much like monsters can't get you on the bed. I was wrong. Something came at me, buzzing my head before retreating as I yelped in alarm. It was a chickadee. Already I could see it sitting on a branch, glaring at me as it planned its next attack. I went inside, and it sat outside the kitchen window, continuing to give me the evil eye. It knows me, and it wants me dead.

I never would have thought the chickadees would turn on me, though in retrospect I realize this probably happened long ago and they're simply getting bolder in their attacks. I was taking pictures this summer when one attacked me camera. Somehow we justified that as being perfectly rational. Even looking at pictures from the last month confirms my suspicions: they've been biding their time. Look at this one, for example. It appears to be a friendly chickadee deciding which peanut it wants.

It's actually an evil monster pondering if it could get enough force to puncture my ulnar artery before it steals my food and leaves me to die in the snow. Just look closer, and you too will see the evil bloodthirsty nature that lies within this seemingly innocent bird.


If you never hear from me again, just assume the birds got me. After all, they are the descendants of velociraptors. They'll learn how to open doors any day now.