The other day while I was working in the shed, I felt a soft bump on the side of my head.

Then I saw a motion to my right, something dark kind of flopping down toward the floor. I realized a bird had flown in the open door and suffered a midair collision with my head.

I saw the dove dive under a 20-pound bag of bird seed that was leaning against a wall, and I spotted our 12-year-old Big Guy doing what older cats aren't supposed to be able to do -- making a dash for the dove.

So much action, so little time. I stamped my foot down right in front of Big Guy and halted his charge. I hollered at him and ushered him out the door.

Next Dolores appeared from the door leading into the kitchen. I told her about the misguided bird, and she asked where it was. Her mother qualities came into play when she saw the soft feathered dove huddled behind the feedbag, shivering in fright.

I didn't think I was scary enough looking to cause it to shiver in fright.

But I decided that if I were that scary looking, I'd take advantage of it and leaned down toward the cringing dove so I was opposite the open door from it. The dove dove out that door, and the way it flew showed it wasn't injured.

Maybe just embarrassed. You're not supposed to plow into a human's hard head, even if he does feed you.

When I looked for Big Guy, I spotted him in the garden, sulking and not looking my direction. Luckily he is old and slow enough that by the time he stalks the squirrels, chipmunks, and birds and does his rear-end wiggle that used to enable him to spring swiftly into action, the critters have had a good laugh and safely made it into flight or up a tree.

This is the same Big Guy, who sleeps on our pillows just above our heads.

Birds are fascinating, though not as interesting as, say, the bull moose that charged my car late one night or the rabid fox that grabbed my jeans leg and soaked my socks with saliva. But they are fascinating.

When I was a kid, we had nursed a songbird back to health in a shoebox. I remember was when it was well enough to fly, and it escaped the shoebox. I don't know how many miles it flew before we herded it out the window we had opened for that purpose.

I'll bet you've had that same experience with a different bird, only in your house instead of ours.

I once watched a flock of a dozen crows chase a hawk out of their turf. That hawk didn't seem to know how fierce it was compared to that noisy black flock.

One of my afternoon bus passengers at Jackson Laboratory feeds some ravens while she waits for the bus to depart. One day she wasn't there, and a big raven -- the raven daddy of them all -- sat on a tree branch near the bus and clucked. You thought chickens clucked. Ravens do too. They're adaptable, clever, good looking critters. They just don't realize they're not chickens.

This raven is one of the birds of a very black, glossy feather, who hang around taking it all in. At times they squawk loudly when things don't quite go their way. At other times, such as early morning on my day off, a group of them make a loud clamor that makes us complain about our "neighbors" of a feather. Photo by Milt Gross.

On another afternoon, while waiting to depart in my bus at Jackson Lab, I watched a varying hare -- snowshoe rabbit for us poor folk -- nibbling at some kind of berries on a bush about 20 feet from the bus. After a bit, a raven landed about 15 feet away and came hopping over, apparently not realizing that rabbits are the ones supposed to hop. Mr. Raven got into Brer Snowhoe's face from about two feet away, and Brer Snowshoe turned and tiptoed -- didn't hop -- under the bush.

The lesson I learned is whoever has the biggest beak wins the berry battle.

Often in the morning I observe what may be a mama downy woodpecker and one of its youngsters at work on one of our two suets. They manage to walk, sometimes backwards, up and down the tree. If I come near to leave bird seed on the ground, they just wander to the opposite side of the tree where I can hear them pecking at the tree itself in search of what woodpeckers are supposed to have for breakfast.

Occasionally, they have to wait awhile for their suet breakfast because someone -- probably the raccoon I once nearly stepped on when I headed out onto the porch as I left for work at 5 a.m. -- steals the suet. Once the raccoon took the entire rig, cage, chain, and all. Usually it just opens the cage and removes the suet.

I know it's not a black bear, because there are no bear scratches on the tree.

But this is about birds, not raccoons or bears.

I've seen a number of owls do rather unowl-like antics, but I've told you about them already, way back in ancient history about a year ago. I'll tell you about them again, when I do a rerun column. While you're waiting, maybe you'd be so kind as to e-mail me some of your tales of the birds you know.

Did you ever watch our noble national symbol, the bald eagle, eat? We did, and he was so close we got good pictures -- before CDs so those photos are not with this column -- of the clumsy big critter, kind of humped over, almost upside down as he chowed down -- or up.

He was our national symbol?

While driving the Island Explorer buses, I routinely spot one of our national symbols flying overhead. Although I point it out to the alert tourists on the bus, usually they don't see it. If they do, they think its a crow. Crows are the norm in Suburbanville, from where those tourists hail.

The other day I watched one flying toward our yard. It was probably 100 yards up and off to an angle. Maybe it was watching Big Guy, wondering how a 14-year-old cat that still tries to chase birds would taste.

But, it spotted me, and angled off to the east. Wonder what it found for dinner. (Maine bald eagles still use the old Maineiac term "dinner" for what the rest of the world calls lunch.)

Oops! Gotta go. Dolores just hollered for me to come watch a fat gray squirrel slide down the rope from which the bird feeder is suspended. Too bad I didn't have our nice new digital Kodak in hand, if I had you could see that fat gray squirrel.

Just what you're dying to see, a photo of a gray squirrel.

A downy (or maybe a hairy woodpecker, as they are similar with the hairy having a longer bill) woodpecker, breakfasting on suet, ignores me as I head toward its tree to put bird seed on the ground for other birds, chipmunks, and squirrels. Photo by Milt Gross.

The same photo as above, cropped.

Milt Gross can be reached for corrections, harassment, or other purposes at lesstraveledway@midmaine.com.

Milton M. Gross Copyright 2009 (1st Rights)