BILLY, THE TAME BLUE JAY

This is the story of my friend, a California blue jay, whom I called Billy.

One afternoon I was in the living room, which was on the 2nd floor of our upside-down house. We had a huge sliding door onto a balcony deck, and also a fireplace with a big mirror above. There were several windows adorned with white shades left up for sunlight.

The sliding door was partially opened to let in the pleasant afternoon air. I was poking around with a dust rag in my hand when, all of a sudden, a blue jay swooped into the room. Very disoriented by finding itself indoors, it bumped into a wall, then a mirror, and then it fluttered into the large mirror above the fireplace. At last, it landed on the mantle, it's little chest going up and down with its fast heart beat.

With no practice or preparation for such an event, I followed my instincts and began to move slowly about the room, closing curtains and speaking gently to the bird, quietly telling him to calm down and hold still  - that I would see him safely out. He sat there, staring at me with his black bead eyes, his little heart still beating so fast it was visible. But he stayed still.

After I pulled each curtain (there were four), I stretched the slider curtain over the solid glass pane, leaving only the door itself uncovered. Then I hauled the slider open to its full width, and gestured to the little fellow. He immediately flew outside via the opening provided, and so to freedom.

After this event, the blue jay returned to the porch, and sat on the balcony railing several times, as if visiting, so I bought some peanuts for him. He watched when I brought the bag of peanuts upstairs and when I set a few out, he immediately dropped down onto the railing and ate some. He was so cheeky and confident that I put some peanuts in my hand, and he came right over and took them from my outstretched palm.

From that day forward, we were close friends and I continued to feed and interact with him several times a day for two years. If he was hungry, he would come to the porch and look in the windows until I came out. He did seem to disappear for a few months each year, late in the season - maybe December-January. I'm not sure what months. For some reason, I began to call him Billy, and he answered to the name. I could call him to me by saying "Billy Billy Billy" in a singsong voice. He was usually nearby (apparently we were part of his territory) and would fly up very fast, looking for peanuts.

The following spring after the original rescue, Billy had a mate. She would sit on the phone wire but I only once saw her come down and grab a peanut. When Spring began, Billy, looking fat and sassy, very bright blue, worked hard to feed his family. As weeks passed, his feathers began to look disarrayed and he lost weight. I knew it was all part of his hard work as a family man. He was not ill and he continued to visit.

At the end of that nesting season, Billy did the most amazing thing. One day I was out on the balcony with the peanut bag and Billy showed up with two juvenile blue jays. The mother jay still would have nothing to do with me, but the juveniles, following their papa's lead, began to come for food as well. By the end of summer, Billy chased his boys away, but they continued to hang around and grab peanuts when they could. Eventually, only one son remained (they seemed like males) - and Billy, who was obviously the bigger boss bird, also remained as king of the territory.

The following year, the same thing happened exactly the same way. Although I am not sure if the fledglings from the second nesting stayed in the area or not because all Billy's children began to look the same to me. Only Billy was completely tame, and very cheeky; he was also much bigger than the younger birds.

The next year, the third year, Billy no longer came. I imagine he had lived out his blue jay years but I missed him. However, his son did come and I have video of that. I still called "Billy Billy Billy" to get the blue jays to come; you can hear that on the video.

The jay on film is one of Billy's first group of sons which he introduced to me; thus, it is a pretty tame bird. Interestingly, the next (4th) year, a new group of fledglings was born from Billy's tame son, but these birds, although they stayed in the territory, showed no tameness whatsoever and did not come for food, although they did hang around the house - probably because they were born to the territory and stayed in it. I was fine with the change from tame back to wild, as it isn't wise to make unfettered wildlife dependent. However, Billy the first, the impudent, intelligent, beautiful little fellow, chose to be my friend; and as a result of his actions, two of his sons were also tame with me. These events were gifts from the gods - all I did was help Billy escape the terrors of an upstairs living room on one long ago, sunny afternoon.

(The video (on YouTube) is a 1-2 sequence showing the tame 2nd generation blue jay).

See: Part 1

http://youtu.be/j931KOa5CoE

See: Part 2

http://youtu.be/u_hR6jvsAaY

Photos of Billy

The Intuitive Dog

Intuition: the ability to understand something immediately, without the need for conscious reasoning.

Wisdom in miniature, Baby Kaz

Kazbek and I had many unusual experiences together - unusual in the manner in which Kaz understood and responded to what was going on at times when I had no viable way to explain the situation or requirement to him. 

The following are two examples of Kazbek's intuition:

KAZBEK WORRIES

At one time, my sister and I were roommates. She worked an evening shift, but - being a night person myself - I was often awake when she got home, usually around 9 p.m.

Kazbek was friendly with my sister, but not really bonded since she had her own dogs and spent most of her moments with them or at work. The times she spent with Kazbek were shared between the three of us, and I was the Chosen One - the person to whom he deeply and permanently bonded.

One evening, I was home alone, relaxing and watching television in the bedroom. My sister was due home but running late - not an unusual event. Kazbek had been resting, stretched out on the floor nearby, when he suddenly awoke, came over to me, sat down in front of me and bumped me with his nose. Kaz was not a nervous or demanding indoor guy, so I casually gave him a pat on the head, expecting him to go back and lie down, which he did not do. Instead, he remained seated in front of me, staring fixedly at me. He was not receptive to the usual blandishments; he was not relieved by petting nor did he go chew his bone, so I took him outdoors, thinking perhaps he needed to go out and use the bushes. Outside, he continued to stay close, nose-bumping or staring at me. Now I began to feel uncomfortable. In California, animals often know when an earthquake is coming, and because Kaz was acting so strange, I began to worry about that. However, none of the several other animals were showing any signs of unusual or anxious behavior.

Kazbek continued to stay near me, continued to make eye contact, as a hungry dog might do for his dinner; however, he was obviously uneasy, yet unable to make his needs apparent. This behavior carried on for about an hour, then the peculiar performance abruptly ceased. He left me, laid down and slept.

About an hour later - two hours later than her usual time - my sister arrives home at last, with a story to tell. She explained that when she left work - around the time Kazbek began to "talk" to me - she discovered to her dismay that her car had been stolen! After looking for it (thinking as one does that perhaps she had forgotten where she parked), she returned to her workplace to get help. One of her co-workers then drove her to the nearest police station to make a report. When she had done everything she could, the friend drove her home. The discovery of the theft, the contact with work friends and the subsequent police report, during which time my sister was obviously very upset, anxious, and worried, took about an hour. Afterward, she was able to calm down and accept a ride home, knowing that she had done all she could for the evening. 

The timing of all this was exact to Kazbek's becoming anxious, notifying me as best he could of "trouble in the pack." His subsequent release of anxiety also correlated to my sister's acceptance of the events of the evening and her realization she had done all she could, which had naturally brought her back to a calmer state of mind.

Nothing else worrisome had occurred that night to explain the dog's behavior. Kazbek's health and appetite were fine. There were no earthquakes. No one, other than my upset sister, was sick or suffering. That was the only time during his life that Kazbek behaved in such a peculiar way. The whole event sequence was so unusual that it has always remained in my mind.

KAZBEK IN THE SNOW

It was a beautiful winter day in sunny southern California. White clouds drifted on the pale blue background of the sky. The afternoon was chilly for that area, in the 50s, but it was a wonderful day to walk a dog.

I packed up a few provisions and the Caucasian Ovcharka, Kazbek, and we drove to the Angeles Crest Highway, which meanders 60+ miles - a 2-way road through the mountain pass that separates the northeastern deserts from the busy southeastern freeways and populations. Because the route passes through the protected Angeles National Forest (which comprises tens of thousands of acres), development is very limited. The Angeles Crest is also a popular "body dumping" area and the scene of many peculiar crimes, but what can you expect a few miles outside of the vast metropolis known as Los Angeles?

With a C.O. at your side, you tend to be brave and hike and travel where and when you please, and so it was with us that winter day.

Kazbek, a dog with hundreds of generations of mountain dogs behind him, never seemed happier or more at peace than when we roamed high trails and barren places. As I drove, I stopped here and there to photograph the area and the dog as well.

Kazbek plays St. Bernard while Mrs. flops in the snow off Angeles Crest.

Eventually, about an hour into the drive, I decided it was time to take the big guy for a stroll. We found an off-road area with a trail and parked in the almost frozen mud. I leashed up the dog and off we went, wandering on a trail surrounded by a maze of high brush and dead weeds. The bright cold air and the spectacular views made me forget that the sun sets early in the winter. During the last ten minutes, we had also been experiencing light snow flurry, which - since snow is seldom seen in Los Angeles itself - was delightful as the flakes made the air sparkle and dance with life.

However, when I turned around to go back, I suddenly realized that all that delightful snow had begun to cover the dirt trail, which was more of a deer track than a hiking path. An unpleasant feeling of panic began to build in my chest. We were at least half an hour from the car, but, I realized, I had been that Fool in the Wilderness - I had in no way marked our trail, nor had I mapped it out in my head. With the sun setting and dark coming on, all I could do was turn and trek toward the sunset as I knew we had been going east on the trail, and, of course, the sun sets in the west. However, in a very few minutes, there was no trail. There was no road. There was no car. And it continued to snow more heavily.

I teach all my dogs a "get in the car" cue, which I use consistently. They also learn "find it" games, but these relate to hidden treats not lost cars. But all I could think of to do, as white flakes continued to drown all landmarks, was to utilize our get-in-the-car cue and hope that somehow Kazbek would figure it all out. So I told him, "Find the car." And, dropping the leash so I couldn't unintentionally pull him the wrong way, I encouraged him again to "find the car." Kazbek immediately put his head down and took off at a light trot. He only stopped once to sniff a bush and I reminded him, "no, FIND THE CAR! Within about 15 minutes, me following and he trotting along, all business, we came out at the trail head, exactly where I had parked. Long sighs of relief from me and an ordinary, "let's get in the car Mrs." look from him, and we were off - back to the lights, back to warmth and safety. Back to ordinary.

While many dogs are taught to be wonderfully adept at tracking and finding (as in Search & Rescue work), Kazbek was never really trained for any of those skills. Thus, his ability to understand what I wanted and deliver it was ever a source of amazement and curiosity. Perhaps the happy result of his finding the car was simply because we turned back on the trail rather than continuing forward, and he therefore assumed the walk must end in a return to the car. Perhaps. However, Kazbek was an intact male set off-leash in an area populated by small rodents, medium-sized predators, deer, and occasional human hikers with their dogs. He nonetheless ignored all extraneous scent and just trotted back to the car through the snow, on an invisible trail. Because I needed him to - what can you call that but intuition?