Fur and Feathers Flying

by GRENVILLE KENT

I got a shock last Father’s Day. I was awoken by whispering at the bedroom door, and my two-year-old daughter arrived bringing kisses and toast and wanting stories. My wife had cuddled in too with The Bump, our unborn son. It was blissful.

Then I pedalled off to the tennis courts for a Sunday morning hit-up. It was the second day of spring, and I rode along dreamily inhaling warm currents of magnolia and jasmine, wattle and cherry blossom—then whack! My left ear exploded with pain.

What the——? Had I snagged a thornbush? Clipped a road sign? As warm blood trickled down my neck, I looked up. A magpie was banking for another dive-bombing run.

I started jinking in my seat, waving an arm over my helmeted head, but Mags came from behind and struck again, millimetres from the first wound.

Grrr! I yanked the racquet from my backpack and swung it like an enraged Viking (or at least a grumpy Swedish tennis player). Passing drivers stared at the strange, manic figure practising for the new sport-on-bike tennis.

Mags wisely kept his distance, but I was hurtling downhill toward an intersection and the back brake alone wasn’t enough. I tucked the racquet under an arm and squeezed the front brake too. I wobbled around like a human jellyfish, but Maggots saw both my hands were occupied. He seized his moment to Stuka me again on exactly the same spot.

One swallow may not a summer make, but a swooping magpie makes you duck, swallow, and go a little cuckoo.

I got off my bike (literally) and swooshed my oversize racquet around.

Try passing this at the net, bird-brain. He lurked darkly in the trees like an extra from a Hitchcock movie.

I seethed at the injustice of it. We help our daughter feed a magpie at home! I wouldn’t hurt his young—least of all on Father’s Day! I have children too, matey.

I’m on your side! I walked with the bike, watching him till I was out of range. I had to admit, he was a great father—protecting, providing and training his young. He seemed to value all his children, even though none were merchant bankers. He took time to know them, despite his career as a pilot.

He might even look down on humans whose fledglings are raised by TV, learning the McValues that narrow minds and broaden backsides.

Mags was prepared to get tough when necessary. Even gentle Jesus warned of vengeance from above on those who mistreat children: “If anyone hurts one of these little ones . . . it would be better for him to have a millstone tied around his neck and be thrown into the deepest sea!” That judgment should make some religious leaders tremble. God fiercely loves His kids.

Mags’s attack on me was misguided, but impressive; he risked his life to protect his little ones. Jesus said the greatest love is a willingness to lay down your life for those you love. And Jesus did just that for us.

“Like a good father who knows tender empathy for his children, God has great compassion for those who love Him” (see Mark 9:42; Psalm 103:13, adapted).

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