Chester & Gender Roles

Not knowing the difference between a male and female house sparrow is yet another acceptable predicament I find myself in.  Therefore, I call all sparrows within a 20-foot radius, ‘Chester.’ 

One sparrow found protection from the winter winds on the eaves of the porch.  I learned how sparrows roost in streetlights to stay warm, and mate for life.   Imagine that.

Having used enough gap filler last fall to keep sparrows from pooping on my head, one family moved itself to a pretty fabulous housing unit affixed to the post of the porch.  A friend of mine made it, complete with pine tree silhouettes and 3 holes with perches.  It’s vacancy sign was lit until this spring when Chester and later, Chester, moved in.

I watched an ascension of dead grass bits, cellophane string from cigarette packs, Winkle hair and random lint into the nest site.  Then frenetic feeding cycles began and I learned that, like most birds (etc), the female markings are more subdued than the male’s.  Chester, with the high contrast, built the nest by himself and hoped that the new construction would attract a hot bird babe.  Now I understand why Chester donned a construction hat and later a suit and tie.

After Chester mercilessly mounted a dusty female (and she did look worse for the wear) for days on end, there was a racket of sparrow distress.  In case you have never heard this it sounds like a symphony of ukuleles with no conductor or score.  Chester, Jr. perched on a small mound of garden soil and could not generate the loft needed to return home.  I moved to pick him up and he and scuttled around like a land flounder.  I scooped up little Chester (alert Snopes.com – that is a myth!!) placing him where his parents could get to him.   The alerts quieted while both Chesters made bids to entice him home, but eventually, Chester, Jr. met his demise.  Days later, I found his flat bird body pressed into the ground.

Female Chester stood guard over the spot where Chester Jr. lay, chirping incessantly, but slowly.  I felt terribly for her and told her, “I know hoew you feel.”  At the same time she grieved, frenetic mounting by her housemate was constant.  It was all she could to fend off his frustrated pecks. 

The female, tufted and bare, looked like a grub infested lawn.  She started sitting on the bottom rail of the garden fence and barely flew at all.  “Oh no,” she chirped wildly, “no more of that.”

She either ran far away, or also met her demise because soon Chester sat on the perch of his house rhythmically cheeping all day long.  Walking out the door caused him to fly to the neighbors deck without missing a cheep and stare at me.  “What am I supposed to do?” I asked, “I swear I didn’t do this to you.”

Now I hear muffled, weak chirps from inside the townhouse.  Will Chester woman-up and adapt to feeding the remaining chicks?  Will he engage in bulimic behavior to ensure the survival of his offspring, or does he just want to get laid?  Does Chester really feel helpless and sad or am I just projecting again?