I have this vivacious 17-year-old friend named Ellen. I think she wants to be a lawyer when she grows up. Anyway, she’s saving money for college by working part-time in the circulation department of my newspaper. One day, after a miserable month of having lost a beloved grandmother (heart attack), breaking a finger (field hockey practice), and the theft of her bicycle (her ride to school), she stormed over to my desk, aggressively jammed her fists down on her hips, and announced, “You know something? Denial is underrated.”

I laughed. And I absolutely adored how she expressed her frustration by making up a brand new, and I thought, pithily perfect aphorism.

How she felt about her miserable month was spot on to how I’d felt about the last few days of my existence: facing the mass extermination of local wildlife, the frightening invasion of a homicidal hybrid species, and my constant worry about the birds and bug that I love. Which sort of thrust me into an Ellen-like mood, and an overwhelming desire to escape realty.

Ergo … it was time to deny. Deny. Deny.

Which is why I decided to have a picnic.

Think about the word “picnic.” What pops into your mind? For me, it’s a grassy knoll, sunshine in a bright blue sky, a gentle breeze, a wicker basket filled with fried chicken, potato salad, thick slabs of sharp cheddar cheese, grapes, and … you fill in the blanks.

But my picnic was not quite that picturesque because, denial notwithstanding, I couldn’t forget that a predator might be hovering overhead. So, after extending an invitation to the head of the Avian Slaughter Task Force (a.k.a. Special Investigator Clayton Boyfriend), I decided that the location for my picnic would not be on grassy knoll, but in the comparative safety of my backyard.

Even so close to home, however, there was a risk that my little friends might be detected by one of the (now many) homicidal Terror Birds roaming our wooded areas. Regardless, Clay and I agreed that – for the sake a much-needed distraction -- it was a risk well worth taking.

Since we had worked the entire weekend, I scheduled the picnic for Monday at 2:00 p.m. Other than Clay, the guests included Rochester and Stella, our favorite goldfinches; Nigel and Gwendolyn, our beauteous titmouses; Florence, our teeny, tiny swan; Archie and Daffney, our incongruously-sized lovebirds; and the lone insect in our makeshift family, Byron, the romance-addled dragonfly.

Quite a dignified assembly!

I kept them all inside until Clay arrived. Once he was here, though, instead of letting him help me in the kitchen, I asked him to remain outside at the table while our bird and bug buddies were waiting to be served and/or eating. In the course of his job as a Park Service law enforcement officer, Clayton Yonder carries a Glock Model 22 .40-caliber pistol. Should the need arise, I explained, I wanted him on site and able to point his weapon skyward.

Our conversation during the course of that afternoon was unexpectedly educational. We’d had – or so I’d thought when I came up with the idea for a picnic – no particular agenda. Just an interlude of fresh air, idle chit-chat, and good food. But that isn’t how it turned out.

I’m not going to go into linguistic detail about how information was exchanged, when and if either Clay or I understood what Rochester, Stella, Nigel, Gwyndolyn, Florence, Daffney, or Archie was saying at any given moment, or when and if Archie had to interpret for us (although Byron was a good listener, he rarely talked. So, his verbal skills or lack thereof were largely irrelevant). All you have to know is that the two humans present acquired an avalanche of intelligence that later became crucial … from a militarily strategic point of view.

I’ll start with some basics about chickadees. You already know that from the top of their oh-so-sweet heads to just below their eyes, their feathers are black. This is why – no surprise here – the birds are called “Black Capped Chickadees.”

Another interpretation of their “look,” though, is that instead of wearing black caps, they are wearing masks. Like bandits. And that, dear friends, is why a group of those delightful creatures (like a “pride of lions” or a “prickle of porcupines”) is called a “banditry of chickadees.”

Isn’t that cute?

Now, about how chickadees communicate. This relates directly to onomatopoeia, a. mouthful of syllables describing how words replicate or evoke the sound(s) that suggest its name. Examples include: buzz, gulp, pop, sizzle, and my all-time favorite – if you’ve ever been awakened at dawn by a rooster, you’ll agree that it’s right on the money – cock-a-doodle-doo.

And that brings us back to “chickadees,” so called because their songs are combinations of the chick-a-dee-dee-dee sounds they make. These modulations serve many purposes, including mating, socializing, establishing territorial perimeters, and so on. However, the only ones we’re interested in today are those that relate to danger.

By varying the number of dees in their song, chickadees alert each other to the proximity, size, and lethality of a threat. More “dees” mean greater danger. Fewer mean less. Sixteen dees, which is their maximum, mean “grab your car keys and petticoats, because all hell is about to break loose.”

Pertaining to our impending war against Terror Birds, we quickly realized that our very own Archie the Giant Chickadee was Big Kahuna of his “tribe.” This included not only the chummy group living in my house, but also all of the feathered fellows and gals who would be joining us later. He was Numero Uno, Head Honcho, and Boss-of-Bosses, outranked only by Special Investigator Clayton Yonder. Who, by the way, was writing down and recording everything said on the day of our picnic.

And that delivers me right at the doorstep of “flock behavior,” a topic crucial to understanding the whys and wherefores of our rank and file.

You would think – at least those of us whose prior knowledge of birds comes from watching Tweety and Daffy Duck cartoons on T.V. – that bluejays only hung out with bluejays. Cardinals only fraternized with cardinals. Swallows with swallows. Sparrows with sparrows. And the like.

But … Not So.

There exists amongst avians a phenomenon called a “mixed flock.” These are birds who form tightly knit relationships, not only with members of their own species, but with different species, as well. Chickadees, for example, don’t just hobnob with chickadees, but also with woodpeckers, nuthatches, warbles, and titmouses to help each other out in times of need.

The composition of these mixed flocks consists of a “nuclear species,” which directs the activities of the entire flock from the center, with “attendant species” circling the nucleus like satellites. Unsurprisingly, when it comes to mixed flocks of songbirds, chickadees are the nuclear species. And since their dee-dee-dee alarms are recognized by up to 40 species, their responsibilities are enormous.

These small, adorable, intelligent birds carry the weight of the world on their shoulders!

To put this in perspective, during the blitzkrieg of London during World War II, if Terror Birds were bombs, chickadees not only would have been the city’s air raid wardens, they would have been London’s air raid sirens, as well.

Now, in the real world, where bombs are birds and danger is still coming from the sky, members of our mixed flock were not looking for guidance or protection from their fellow titmouses, bluejays, or meadowlarks. They wanted Archie. He was their Grand Poo-Bah. Their inspiration. Their friend.

And that day, at the picnic in my backyard, when the eyes of Special Investigator Clayton Yonder met the eyes of Archie the Giant Chickadee, a soundless pact was made between them, and silently sealed with mutual nods.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2026. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com.