I call them Chloe and Sparky. As creatures of grace and beauty perhaps better names would have been Cleopatra and Spartacus or at least Clarissa and Spencer, but they’re hummingbirds. Grandiloquent names are just wrong.
Sparky is a male ruby throat who is aggressive to the point of meanness. He fights. Chloe is a long, long, long suffering female who just wants to eat and eat and eat some more. There’s no such thing as a fat hummingbird, but she comes close. She is so well fed she has a hummingbird-sized spare tire, sort of a spare bottle cap.
Sparky dives at Chloe whenever he sees her. Chloe is cagey, able to hide in alternate eateries for hours. My yard is large with a mane of trumpet vine draped over the garage at one end, a bed of rampant monarda at the other and a bottle feeder in the center. I’ve placed a chaise by the feeder so each evening at dusk I can watch another episode of the long running humming bird soap opera, All My Days Flit About.
Ornithologists would be quick to point out that it is the hummingbird’s nature to try to chase other hummers from a territory. It can’t help its behavior. But I’ve been around animals most of my adult life, goats to ducks, chickens to horses; I’ve known too many animals too well to dismiss all behavior as instinct. Perhaps an animal can’t escape its nature, but it certainly can individualize itself within those limits. A hummingbird can’t be a cat, but it isn’t like other hummingbirds either. Sparky is a unique personality, aggressive, as his instincts require, but also stupid. And Chloe, also unique, can outsmart him.
She’s usually the first to approach the feeder. She hovers, looks me over, shifts position, hovers, and looks me over again to be sure it’s me. It took her about a week to figure out I was part of the food supply system. She made the connection the evening I hung out a fresh bottle so the nectar was still cold from the refrigerator. She took a sip, drew back in surprise, smiled at me and then gorged herself. Ice cold drinks on a hot day, yes. After a twirl or two around to check for Sparky, she usually settles on the feeder to eat. It’s rare to see a hummingbird still. Most hummers I’ve observed hover rather than perch on a feeder. Not Chloe. Her secret for fattening is sneaking rests along with those sips.
I don’t think Sparky has ever seen me. He’s so intent on drubbing Chloe that he streaks by me practically grazing my ear. He doesn’t stop to eat at the feeder either but keeps after her. Consequently he is scrawny, scruffy and underfed.
Chloe has a way of tilting her head when she’s thinking. She was eyeing the sky, head tilted, an evening or two ago. Sparky was on his belligerent way, but this time she didn’t flee. She had decided her sip and rest strategy had prevailed. She was now bigger than he was. She squawked. I didn’t know hummers could squawk. And then she chased him clear into the neighboring pasture.
Above: Chloe and Sparky, pencil, 9x12 inches. Copyright ptw 2010.
