Saturday, 24 March 2001

I heard the Dogwhistle Bird today. I was going to see what was on the sports channels, but I realized that the yard trash truck hadn’t come by yet. The oak trees in the front yard had dropped a few last leaves, and I thought, "if I get out there now, I might be able to get the rest of the leaves up and out to the curb before the truck shows up." So I did.

It’s a beautiful Spring day here in Lawndale. Sunshine, blue sky, fluffy white clouds, high sixties, a breeze that changes direction two or three times a minute. The azaleas are in full bloom, which means that the front of the house is a riot of color, and the Dogwoods are nearly there. The birds are singing, most notably the Mockingbirds, but others too. The trailing edge of the Robin migration is still hanging around, but they aren’t singing. As I worked, I got to thinking of the song of another bird , a song that used to bug the heck out of me, a song that, sometimes, was actually painful.

I never knew the name of this bird. I’ve tried to look it up, but it is a shy little bird, and it never would let me get close enough to get a good look at it. All I can say is that it’s a very small gray bird with no major distinguishing markings. Bird identification books are full of little gray birds like that. So I called it the Dogwhistle Bird after its most unusual feature, its song. Sort of dull as birdsongs go, just "eepeepeepeepeep! Eepeepeep! Eepeepeepeepeepeepeep!" What is unusual about it is its pitch. It’s beyond the range of normal human hearing. I’ve asked many other people, I’ve described the call, I’ve even pointed out where the sound was coming from, and no one but Daria and I have ever been able to hear it, even when the bird was nearby and its call was actually hurting my ears. Helen’s and Quinn’s hearing tests better than normal, but they’ve both stood right beside me and heard nothing while I’ve alternately pointed and plugged my ears to block out the tiny varmint’s shrieking. I’m pretty sure they thought I was nuts, even though Daria backed me up, till they finally saw the thing once.

Anyway, as I was raking and sweating and enjoying the breeze, I remembered those little birds, and wondered why I hadn’t heard them. It occurred to me that my eyesight isn’t quite as sharp now as it used to be. I mean, I can still read the paper, but Helen has been hinting that we should go get our eyes checked. By ‘we’, she means me, of course. Well, a man’s arms do tend to start getting shorter after a certain age, but I didn’t want to think that my hearing might be starting to go too. And then I heard it. Eepeepeepeepeep! Eepeepeep!

It didn’t hurt my ears this time. I didn’t see the bird; I guess it was in a neighbor’s yard a house or two down, but I heard it. Ol’ Jakey’s still got the sharpest ears on the block! And the best looking yard, too, by the way.

But I know that someday Spring will come again, and the crocuses, then the redbuds, then the other flowers in their ages-old order will bloom, and the birds will return and sing their old songs again. And the Dogwhistle birds too will return from wherever they spend the winter, and sing their hypersonic serenade, and I won’t hear them.

April Fools will fade into tax day, and tax day into May Day, and I will rake the leaves and trim the azaleas and wonder why the Dogwhistle Birds are so late this Spring, and sooner or later I’ll have to admit that it’s not them, it’s me.

"So what?" others may say. "I’ve never heard a Dogwhistle Bird in my life, and I somehow soldier on." True. At that point I’ll still have normal or better hearing. For a while. But it’ll be another sign, another mile marker passed, another icy breath on the back of my neck. Hearing will go the way of eyesight, and what will be next? I really don’t want to know. We all know how it ends up, but few of us want to know all the details of how we get there. I’ve looked the Reaper in the face, and I’m in no hurry to meet him again, but there’s no turning back on that road.

You see, Kiddo, this is why your Mom and I might not always seem to enjoy reading those angsty stories of yours as much as you enjoy writing them. Not that they aren’t great. They are. But we’re already getting our angst quotas met.

But what the heck. Fol de rol, fiddledy I ay, I heard the Dogwhistle Bird today.