Lessons from My Wild Neighbors July 11, 2022
Although we live in the most densely populated part of the city, our noisiest neighbors are not human. One bird, in particular, begins crashing into our window about an hour before dawn, and rarely does he stop before dark. The small bird has a short tail and is speckled with black and white feathers, like a downy woodpecker, but without the red top. His crown is tarmac black, and his face is marked with the camouflaged zebra stripes of a jungle warrior. The metal band on his ankle indicates some period of captivity. Perhaps this Rambo is seeking revenge for his mistreatment.
I can ascertain such a detailed description because this Mexican Woody Woodpecker spends most of each day perched outside our bedroom. I suspect he does not see us, however, but only his reflection in the mirror of tinted glass. If I open the window, he flies away, but soon he is back, smashing into the glass with his straight pointed beak. I imagine it is only a matter of time before the beak will become blunt from the collisions. His head must be killing him. But as long as the doppelgänger in the reflection retreats upon impact, as he invariably does, so long will he be justified in his pointed assaults on our pane.
Then there are the dogs. In cities where the residents have no yards, pets can only find space to roam atop their homes. And without the threat of a heavy snowpack, roofs tend to be flat, providing the ideal playpen. Our apartment happens to be one-story higher than the surrounding buildings, so whenever I am at an open window I am staring down on a dog, or two or three. They immediately begin barking and wagging tails, performing their necessary guardian roles but also eager for the company. For some, like the dirty white poodle on the east roof, I am convinced that I am one of the few interactions he has with humans.
Well into the night, the dogs patrol the edges of the rooftops, above Banco Azteca and Miguel’s Fiesta Tienda, shouting at the desultory drunkards to go home. “Be gone from this place called Calle Colon,” they yelp. “Return to your loved ones, who miss you and worry about you.” Even the dirty white poodle joins the rousing canine chorus, although he has no view of the street and can only infer the alien presence from the others, whom he shall never see. Such is the nature of captivity.
In the earliest hours of the morning, the streets are quiet. The dogs can finally rest, they have done their duty. Light barely begins to show over the eastern hills. In the stillness, I am reminded of the story where a man, alone in his little home, is tormented and frightened by the stranger outside his window, who is waving his hands beside a freshly dug hole in the earth. Driven by anxiety and a need to escape the threat, the man tunnels out of his own home and waves for help to a neighbor, who, in turn, panics and begins his own escape tunnel, and so on.
Suddenly, I am jolted by a crashing sound, then another. Through the darkened window, I see the shackle on the fugitive’s ankle. I know this story, or at least I think so, and how it might end. But maybe it is not his reflection that the woodpecker sees. Maybe he sees with utter clarity, and it is indeed me that causes him to charge, the human who resembles a monster that once placed him in chains. In helpless response, I wag my tail and bark at my reflection.