I have always been a bit wary of birds. As far as I can tell, my apprehension is not the result of a single incident, but there are several things which may have contributed: watching a certain Alfred Hitchcock movie as a child, or growing up near the shore, where if you didn’t cover your french fries on the walk from the snack shack back to your blanket you ran the risk of being attacked by a hungry mob of seagulls. Then there is the whole “wings where hands should be” thing. All of this however, is small potatoes compared to my experiences while living in northern California, where the birds are pterodactyl-like in size, and much more intimidating than any I have ever encountered in my native northeast.

One experience with an extremely aggressive turkey left me particularly shaken.  I had been avoiding it for days as it wandered aimlessly around our neighborhood admiring itself in the reflection of various parked cars. Then one morning, as I was getting ready to leave, I found it standing in our driveway.  I stopped in my tracks, our eyes locked, and I can distinctly remember wondering if it could sense my fear. It didn’t take long to find out.  As I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and walked as confidently towards my truck as possible, the turkey smirked and stepped directly between me and the vehicle’s door. I took a step back. It took a step back. I tried again. Same thing. We danced like this for some time, me getting more panicky by the minute, it clearing enjoying itself. I eventually dove in through the passenger window while it was busy preening itself in the driver’s side door, but it took me half of the afternoon to find an opening.

Not long after, something even worse occurred. I was taking our small dog out in the backyard to do her business. She was happy, wagging her tail. I was happy too.  It was one of those really beautiful days. Sun shining, the perfect temperature, a big blue sky overhead and the smell of jasmine in the air. Then we heard it…a soft rustling noise. Then silence. Then more rustling, but louder now. The bushes started to shake. The dog froze, I froze, and before I even had a moment to assess what could be happening, a large dark object flew directly towards my head. I instinctively ducked and felt a strong whoosh of wind as it passed close to my face. Turning, I was able to take in its appearance for the first time, and gasped at its hideousness. There I was, standing face-to-face with the dreaded Turkey Vulture.

Have you seen one of these creatures before? If not, let me paint you a picture. Start by picturing a shrunken, wrinkly head about the size of an apple, with a few straggly hairs still attached here and there. Add in some beady eyes, a craggy looking hooked beak, then balance the entire thing atop a bird-body the size of a small child.

The dog started barking frantically, but the scavenger was as cool as a cucumber and absolutely not backing down. It started moving purposefully towards our pup, its wings outstretched, flapping. A battle was brewing and I knew I had only a moment to make a decision. I took one more look at the formidable beast to my left, then down at the wimpy mini schnauzer who gets hand fed baby carrots and has to be carried past the big bad clothes dryer, and quickly calculated who had the better odds.  I knew what I had to do.

Holding my arms open wide and screaming like I was on fire, I charged straight towards the giant bird. I would like to tell you it flew away, never to be seen again, but all it did was calmly hop up onto the fence and sun itself for the next hour, or so.  No matter. I had made my point, and learned something about myself in the process. I have the ability to face my fears head on (and still have a dog to prove it).