Spring is here, which can only mean one thing: Hummingbird season. Every year I fill up the hummingbird feeder with delicious sugar water and hang it by the shed out back next to the red snap dragons, which I’m told you like, and every year I see maybe one or two of your stupid asses all season? And even then all you do is float around for a few seconds before flitting away like the dumb bird bastards that you are. What the hell is that all about? Is my sugar water not sweet enough for you? Are my snap dragons not snappy enough?
You think just because you’re the smallest, cutest member of the bird kingdom, measuring three to four inches in length when fully grown and weighing less than a nickel, that you can act all aloof, showing up whenever you feel like it? Screw that! You’re not special, just because you flap your wings up to 80 times per second and have a heart rate that reaches 1,260 beats per minute. Big whoop! I have a heart too you know, and while it might not beat as fast as yours does, it can still break when its birdwatching needs go unfulfilled.
Do you think I give two shits about the fact that your metabolism is so high—roughly 100 times that of an elephant’s—that you have to eat one and a half to three times your body weight in nectar and small insects each day in order to survive? Because I don’t. In fact, I don’t even give one shit. Do you think I’m impressed that the International Ornithological Congress (IOC) recognizes 360 unique species of hummingbirds around the world: from the smallest, the Bee Hummingbird (5-6.1 cm), to the biggest, the giant hummingbird, or Patagona gigas (23 cm)? Well I’m not. I wouldn’t be impressed if the IOC recognized 361 unique species, you little Trochilidae pricks.
So get off your goddamn high horses and show up already. Because if you think I don’t have anything better to do than pull up a lawn chair and stare at a bird feeder all day, ignoring my wife’s pleas to “Just come inside already!” and “For the love of God, please go to work today!” then you are sadly mistaken. I have bills to pay and six children to feed. I can’t be spending all of my time waiting to catch a glimpse of your stupid ruby-colored throat feathers, no matter how iridescent they may be.
So this is it. I’m giving you one last chance. Either you show up in my backyard on a semi-regular basis from now on—I’m talking at least 3-4 visits per week, and no less than five minutes per visit—or else I’m taking down the feeder.
Your call, assholes.
Graeme Carey is a writer from Ontario, Canada. His work has appeared in McSweeney’s, New World Writing, and BULL: Men’s Fiction, among other publications.