Hierarchy

To tell you the truth, it wasn’t until my late 20s that I learned the word hierarchy and the medical term pes cavus weren’t the same thing. I should never trust the images in my mind.

As it turns out, and for purposes of this story, the word hierarchy means: a pecking order system in which the members of an organization or society are ranked according to relative status or authority. Let me explain.

Every weekday morning, I get up, shave, and go downstairs to the kitchen. Cheryl is not home because she got up at 5:30 to drive a school bus route twenty miles from our house.

As I stare out the front kitchen window, I see the menagerie staring back at me. Likewise, turning and looking out the back kitchen window, I notice the herd of voyeurs staring at me from across the fence. The day has begun, and I am obliged to give them all treats.

Even before I can make my own breakfast, the agitated wildlife, by flying into the kitchen window, and the cows out back who are mooing like the Vienna Cow’s Choir, let me know that I better get my Levi’s out the door now and give them something to eat. I schlep to the laundry room and slip on my boots, wool coat, and hat. Grabbing the bird seed, I head out into the front yard.

The birds, who are trained for this morning ritual, take to the air, swirling overhead like fall leaves blowing in the wind. It is always wise to keep a hat and coat on while walking under this cacophony of noise. Many times, I have returned to the house looking like a textured wall.

After splashing some seed onto a tray on the porch, I return to the house to bring out the peanuts and corn for the squirrels.

When this is done, the drone of cattle calls from the other side of the house is intolerable. I tromp in my boots to the back yard.

“Oh, shut up, already!” I yell.

We have 100-year-old apple trees in the back yard that grow winter apples. They aren’t good for pies or applesauce. I believe that the farmer who planted this variety was using them for pig and cow feed. The windfall apples are scattered all over the ground, so I grab the wheelbarrow and fill it half full of the fruit and roll it over to the fence.

I am reminded of the screaming mobs of girls who lined the streets of London when the Beatles were chauffeured through town. Crazy Ville! There are 10 cattle including two bulls. I dump the apples under the fence and back out of the way. It is very similar to throwing dead chickens into a pit of crocodiles.

Back in the kitchen, I start my own breakfast which consists of a fried egg and a cinnamon roll. I eat this every day. When I die, my obituary will say I died from a daily egg and cinnamon roll. No reason for an autopsy.

Now, this is where hierarchy comes in.

Hanging from the eve on my porch are three feeders: a Hummingbird feeder, a suet block feeder, and a songbird seed feeder. There is also a seed tray on the porch and the squirrel tray across the garden.

The hummingbirds fly to their feeder to drink, but the Black Cap Chickadees who like sitting on the hummingbird feeder fly up and scare the hummingbirds away. This is hierarchy.

The Chickadees fly to the seed tray but are scared away by the Juncos who are scared away by the Spotted Towhees who are scared away by the Steller’s Jays.

Now, on the suet block, the Chickadees are eating until the Northern Flicker crash-lands onto it and scatters the Chickadees. The only bird who trumps the Flicker is the Pileated Woodpecker who is a much more attractive bird. I believe the Flicker leaves because it can’t compete with the red head-feathers of the woodpecker.

The Steller Jays are the street gangs of the bird world. They are very smart and have sharp eyesight. When I pour the peanuts and corn into the squirrel tray, I hear one Jay from across the street “Caa”. Ten of those bandits will then descend on the tray, swallowing the corn whole. In the Jay group there is also a hierarchy, and one will generally stay in the tray longer, chasing off the other Jay’s. This is until the squirrels arrive.

The squirrels are a pampered bunch. They generally don’t get up until 9:30 am. Then, after brushing their teeth and taming the cowlicks in their fur, they climb out of their nests and head toward their feeder which now is a swarm of Jays. Naturally, when a squirrel climbs into the corn tray, the Jays scatter and the squirrel is King of the mountain. He can remain the king until the next squirrel who wants into the feeder knocks him out. The biggest or most senior squirrel remains to finish the corn until a hawk, or an eagle circles the yard. Then, everything scatters for safety because in the small animal world, the predator birds are the top of the hierarchy.

Now, in the backyard on the other side of the fence, the scrum of cattle are fighting for position to eat the apples I dumped on the ground. The yearling calves don’t even try to compete because the bulls headbutt them away. The hierarchy has to do with who is the biggest and has the most testosterone.

This brings me to the issue I have with the owner of the cattle who does not provide enough food for the animals to keep them from starving. My yard has lush green grass. Their field has weeds and grass eaten down to the roots. Out of hunger, and challenging my size and testosterone level, the bull jumps the fence and ends up in my yard. No time of year is good for this to happen, but in the rainy season it is worse because his hooves sink deep into my lawn tearing it up. This is why I have an aluminum baseball bat.

I run out into the back yard with my bat and face the bull, mano a mono.

“Get out of my yard!” I yell. I stand up tall with my hands holding the bat high in the air.

Staring him in the eyes, I notice the incredibly large scrotum he is packing.  I am thinking he possibly has me in the testosterone area. Nevertheless, I will bluff.

I lunge for him waving my arms, he puts his head down and snorts blowing snot from his nose. His back is hunched, and he kicks his back legs in the air. If he charges me, I will plant the bat in the center of his head.

I wonder if Cheryl will think to look up on the roof of the house for my body.

After a few persuasive swings of the bat while charging him, the bull decides it is not worth the bother and turns and jumps the fence back into his pasture.

“Hah!” I say back in the kitchen. “I’m top of the hierarchy.”

And then Cheryl pulls into the driveway from her morning bus run . . . and I am number two again. She enters the kitchen and eats my egg while I hide in the closet eating my cinnamon roll.

I guess I can live with this arrangement. What I hate is when the grandkids stay over. Then I am #3.

Blasted Hierarchy!

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