A flock of Black-Billed Magpies colonized the block in February. A pair moved into our front garden, broke twigs off bare branches, collected dried leaves, the odd scrap of paper, and flew them all up to the top of our summer shade tree -a majestic Mountain Ash. They restored a dilapidated, abandoned nest that perched in the highest branches. Winter melted into spring and frilly leaves unfurled on the Mountain Ash hiding the refurbished residence. The Magpies pecked around the greening grass and fattened on rain-bloated worms. Charlie, the big, white dog, lay contentedly on the porch or wandered around sniffing. I watched and enjoyed the bird’s industry and antics through the living room window.

The parents-to-be kept house, planned a confinement, and patrolled the fence for squirrels. Not a one dared invade their territory. The garden rushed into full-blown spring. Soon fledglings would fly. Tranquility reigned in our squirrel free zone. No patter of feet on the roof. No gnawing to break into the attic. No food stolen from the bird feeder. No seedlings missing from the vegetable patch. Flowers bloomed in abundance on the strawberry plants.

Two days ago, a ruckus of cawing and screeching drowned out the dawn chorus. By nine it hadn’t stopped or even subsided. Charlie, unusually agitated, demanded to go out the front. I looked through the window and saw Momma and Papa Magpie in a flurry of activity below the lowest branches of the tree. Above in the higher branches squawked and raged the rest of the flock. Next door’s white cat sat motionless at the base looking up, his ears backlit pink by morning sunshine.

Ah! A hard rap on the window sent him running home, but his retreat had no effect on the noise. I opened the front door. Charlie, his training quite forgotten, pushed past me, ran out, and lunged at the tree. Stretched up on his back legs and commenced barking. The birds perched out of reach, screamed at him, and banged their beaks on the branches. I moved to retrieve him and saw in the lowest fork of the tree, not five feet from the ground, a squirrel.

The cat gone and the dog collared, the enraged parents again flew at the squirrel squawking wildly and pecked whichever part of his body he left exposed, usually his tail. Landed on the grass or the fence stood a moment then flew at him again.

I returned inside, hauling the dog with me. The squirrel only had to jump a few feet to the ground and run. But he hadn’t; he didn’t. The deafening noise and ferocious pecking went on. The bigger Magpie, Papa, landed on the fence shook his head and fur fluttered from his beak. I must do something!

Broom in hand I returned to the front garden to encourage the squirrel to run. He did. He ran up the tree, and an already deafening noise became pandemonium. He quickly retreated. I abandoned my bad idea, felt sorry for the squirrel but left him to his own devices.

Around noon I noticed the quiet. It must be over. But no, it was worse. The squirrel still cowered in the lowest fork. Magpies still filled the tree but they stood in silence, still as statues. One Magpie lay dead on the grass. From the size, this bird looked like Papa. Oh, Papa!

After some pondering, and with the aid of two pieces of cardboard and a plastic bag, I removed the corpse. Mamma screamed in solitary protest. I swallowed a lump in my throat. Absolute silence reigned for another hour. Mamma flew down and pecked aimlessly around, stood on the fence, disoriented. She ignored the squirrel completely. No other bird moved. I watched through the window and cried for her and her lost papa.

Then it all started again. Another female bird teamed up with Mamma to attack the squirrel and all hell broke loose. As I watched, the squirrel finally made a break: running down the trunk across the few feet of grass to the path over the path across the porch under the railing followed by an irate, screeching, pecking, wing-flapping black and white Mamma. I ran to the kitchen window in time to see the squirrel dashing along the top of the fence with Mamma right behind him. They both dropped into the alley and out of sight.

Yesterday, the reinforcements returned to their own roosts but remained on call. Traumatized, Mamma challenged everything that moved. She confined the dog to the porch. Twice he wandered towards the grass and twice, two manic birds dive-bombed him, swooped from nowhere over his back and landed on the path to bar his way. I ventured out to sit on the bench and Magpies assembled in the lower branches of the tree screaming and banging their beaks. The slightest noise or movement sent the whole flock skyward, swooping and screeching.

Today is calmer. Mamma is home alone. She no longer challenges the dog, or me. She calls mournfully from the high branches or wanders around the lawn alone. Now I don’t know if fledglings will fly. I feel terribly sad for this widowed bird. It isn’t easy being a single parent.

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