Killdeer and the booty fluff

It’s amazing what some parents will do to protect their children from giant monsters and their thunderous machines of death.

Killdeer are a kind of plover that long ago decided to leave their shorebird cousins at the beach and toss their lot in with humans, figuring shopping mall parking lots and the surrounding landscaping offered better opportunities for their families.

The little birds are everywhere – ubiquitous, really – and they are among the first birds to greet the day with their melodic kill-deer, kill-deer songs.

And normally we humans greet them with some level of affection – if we notice them at all – except on those days when we must maintain our man-made geography. Grass-cutting days can be hell for a ground-nesting bird.

On one such day I was confronted by a frantic Killdeer as I was pushing my mower around a flower bed. She was employing the classic broken wing ploy, where the predator (me) is supposed to follow the supposedly injured prey (the bird) away from her babies. I was amused, but as I was being paid to cut the grass and not terribly interested in a meal of Killdeer, I ignored her and continued on.

So she (I’m being sexist here as it could have been either parent) moved on to step two, which is to turn around and show me her beautiful backside, or more specifically, the rich brown feathers on top of her booty which are normally hidden by her wings. And proceed to fluff them feverishly to get my attention like a stripper hepped up on extra-strength goofballs.

The classic Killdeer Booty Fluff

Well, she (or he) got my attention. Now I’m nervously looking around, fearful that I’ll run over the little fellows. And suddenly there’s two of them, both giving me the stare down. If looks could kill, I’d already be tarred AND feathered.

On my final pass around the flower bed I finally spotted the nest, with Dad guarding four tiny speckled eggs, casually plunked in the dirt, less than a foot from the grass and my approaching blades.

The bird is used to humans, and if I look like a monster to him, I’m probably thought of as a mostly benevolent one. What he thought of the lawn mower, all sound, fury and destruction, nobody knows. But he bravely stayed on the nest until I was mere inches away before exploding out of the bed and onto a nearby sidewalk, shitting himself in the process. He then proceeded to regale me with the most spectacular mash-up of the broken wing ploy and booty fluff-up in the history of Killdeers.

I was in awe.

I was still staring at this brave bird when my boss drove by. “Quit bothering the birds, Pizza Dude,” said Harry, “and get back to work.”

It ain’t easy being a monster.