After Archie left the store that sold “Repurposed Goods,” he flew directly to my house. He’d never visited my home before, and even though I had enjoyed our chat outside the clinic where he’d been inadvertently sucked into an MRI machine and expanded from less than an ounce to a three-pound two-ounce chickadee, I had never really expected to see him again.

I hoped that I would. I’d even prepared for that eventuality. But … I wasn’t sure.

In truth I was so captivated with the little (to me; but big to others of his species) fellow that I began to research black capped chickadees almost immediately. Everything about them is delightful.

First off, they are inquisitive little souls. If they were mammals, they would be ferrets, because they are so damned nosey. They are also fearless and friendly, and it’s easy to coax them to eat out of your hand.

A few other things about chickadees that you might find interesting:

Some have been known to live in the wild for over 11 years ▪ Despite the occasional Don Juan, they mate for life ▪ They stow seeds in thousands of different locations to prepare for winter, and when the chill hits the air, they remember every single hiding place ▪ Each year – and this is weird – they do something resembling a “data dump.” Apparently, come autumn, all of the neurons in their tiny brains expire … Dead. Gone. Kaput … to make room for new ones. The new neurons better prepare them to adapt to changes in their flock and in their environment.

Admittedly, I don’t understand this last attribute at all. Do chickadees sweep out their old brain cells like windshield wipers sweeping off snow? Do they keep a few (like a Valentine from a lover) for sentimental reasons? And if it’s true that they mate life, once all of their old neurons have been donated to the Salvation Army, how do they remember whom they love?

It’s a puzzlement.

Chickadees have dozens of other charming qualities I haven’t mentioned, but I’d learned enough so that when I heard a gentle tap, tap, tap against my kitchen window, not only was I thrilled to see Archie again, I was also confident I could intelligently converse with him about his “tribe.” I hurriedly dried my hands and rushed to the back door. The instant it opened, he flew in.

I was grinning broadly. “Archie!” I exclaimed.

He darted past me to the stove, and perched on a front burner. Fortunately, the flame was not on. His feathers clung to him like a wetsuit, and his entire body trembled.

“Cold?” I asked.

“Freee … freeez … freezing,” he twittered.

I grabbed a thick dish towel and thrust it into the microwave oven. Thirty seconds later, I wrapped it around Archie. Then I carried him to the living room, set him down on the rug in front of my gas fireplace, and turned it on. Flames leaped upward, and within seconds, the room was warm.

“I’ve been thinking about you, Archie,” I said.

He rotated his body to face me.

Now here things get tricky: How does one interpret facial expressions on a Giant Chickadee? At first, I identified a look in his eye as plaintive. Almost as quickly, it turned into what I thought might be … hope. And I can only describe the next expression on his face as resolve. As if he were a soldier fearful of going into battle, but intrepidly determined to succeed.

While I waited for Archibald’s shivering to stop, I decided to distract him from how cold he was with chit-chat.

“I’ve been reading about chickadees,” I began, not waiting for a response. “…and I figured out that – given your increased size and body weight – no matter how many seeds you may have tucked away to prepare for the winter, it won’t be enough. So …”

I stood up (I forgot to tell you that I was sitting beside him on the rug), lifted a cautionary finger, and said, “Wait here.” Then I dashed through the kitchen door to the garage. A minute later, I came back with a 20-pound bag of birdseed (“Wild Bird Blend”) tucked under my left arm, and a not-easy-to-identify wooden object dangling by a metal hoop in my right hand.

“These,” I said, dropping the bag on the floor, “are your winter rations.”

I gently placed the wood contraption down beside it.

“And this is you bird feeder.”

Archie stared. Then, sufficiently thawed to become curious, he ruffled his feathers, took a step forward, and poked his head into one of the object’s large holes.

“It doesn’t look like any bird feeder I’ve ever seen before,” he remarked doubtfully, continuing to poke his head into this hole and that.

“It isn’t. I designed it myself, and I asked my boyfriend to build it for you. Conventional bird feeders aren’t big enough Their perches are tiny, and even if you managed to gain a footing, your weight would tip the whole thing over, the seeds would spill to the ground, and a thousand other birds and beasts would gobble them up before you got a chance.”

I lifted my modified birdfeeder off the floor and let it dangle by its hoop from my palm, as if I were the limb of a tree.

“This is perfectly balanced for your weight, Archie. It has six-inch perches with openings too small for squirrels, but big enough for your head. Best of all, the cylinder contains 15 pounds of seed. So even if I’m away when you get hungry, you’ll have enough to eat you until I get home.”

My fine feathered friend (I’ve always wanted to use that expression, but never expected to do so literally) nodded his head. Of course, since he is shaped like a tennis ball and has no neck, this means that he nodded his entire body. Then he spread his wings and rose into the air. Next thing I knew, he was perched on top of my head. He leaned over so that his own head rested flat against my ear, and he whispered huskily, “I need your help.”

I squinted and frowned. “Aren’t I already helping you?”

“You are. You are,” Archie said emphatically. “And I’m grateful. But I need more help.”

“Dare I ask what kind?”

“Tactical.”

“Tactical,” I repeated, somewhat dubiously.

Archie hopped off my head and flew to the fireplace mantle. Then he leaned his whole body toward me, and stated as solemnly as a doctor telling a patient that he had only ten days to live.

“I need you to teach me how to be cute.”

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2025. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com