The Magpie Intervention

A meditation on minding your own damn business

The road to hell is paved with human intentions!

It was ninety-seven degrees in May, which is like finding your grandmother twerking at a nightclub—technically possible, but deeply unsettling and something you'd rather not think about too hard. We can unpack the meteorological implications of this later, but for now, just know that Mother Nature was having one of her moods.

This was the second year the magpies had decided my yard was prime real estate. Last year they'd set up shop in the plum tree, constructing what can only be described as a bird mansion—if birds were paranoid survivalists with a flair for the dramatic. Magpie nests aren't your delicate little robin teacups. Oh no. These are fortresses. Igloos of sticks and attitude, big enough that you could rent them out on Airbnb if you weren't concerned about the structural integrity or the smell.

But this year, with the wind acting like it was auditioning for a disaster movie—constant, relentless, the kind that makes you wonder if Kansas is about to show up in your backyard—they'd decided to relocate. To the pine tree. So for weeks I'd watched them move their entire domestic operation one stick at a time, like the world's most inefficient moving company. They left behind only the bottom layer of the old nest, which I can only assume was their version of a toxic waste site, full of what my grandmother would have diplomatically called "unmentionables."

Now, when word got out last year that I was harboring magpies, you'd have thought I was running a meth lab. The neighbors came by with the kind of excitement usually reserved for reality TV drama or public executions.

"Oh my God, is that a magpie nest?" they shrieked, like they'd discovered Jimmy Hoffa in my sagebrush.

"Yes," I said, because I'm observant that way.

"We have to tear it down before there are babies!"

"Too late," I said. "Already babies."

This news sent them into a frenzy that would have impressed a medieval mob. "Get your shotgun! We have to kill them now, before it's too late!"

"Too late for what?"

"Before they become adult magpies and start eating all the little birds and robin eggs!"

There was no point explaining that magpies are basically nature's janitors, cleaning up roadkill and keeping the ecosystem balanced. These were people who thought raccoons were plotting against them personally.

"Well," I said, "I'm not planning to eat them, so there's no point in killing them."

"You'll be sorry!" they yelled, speeding away in their SUV like they were escaping a crime scene. "They'll attack your dogs! Peck out their eyes!"

Now, this was amusing because they clearly hadn't met my dogs. I have two dogs: a 120-pound creature I call the Beady-Eyed Little Mother Fucker—BELMF for short—and a 22-pound Holy Terror who operates under the delusion that he's a grizzly bear. The Holy Terror would take on Godzilla if Godzilla had the audacity to set foot in our yard, and BELMF, despite her size, has the impulse control of a toddler who's just discovered candy floss.

So today—today of all days—Mom and Dad Magpie decided it was time for their offspring to get out and explore the world. I discovered this when I came trudging back from feeding the sheep, sweaty and already questioning my life choices, only to find BELMF doing laps around the pine tree like she was training for the Olympics. Not to be left out, Holy Terror was doing his best grizzly. Above them, the magpie parents were having what appeared to be a complete nervous breakdown, screaming every curse word in the magpie vocabulary.

Through the pine branches, I could see flashes of white—baby magpies hopping around like popcorn in a hot pan. This was not going to end well.

I managed to corral both dogs inside, much to their vocal displeasure. BELMF gave me a look that clearly said, "You have ruined my entire day, possibly my entire life," while the Holy Terror began what I can only describe as a sustained protest at the back door, complete with frenzied scratching that sounded like he was trying to tunnel to China.

Being the helpful sort—and this is where the story takes a turn toward complete disaster—I went to check if any baby magpies had taken an unscheduled header out of the nest. This is, apparently, a thing they do. Baby magpies have all the coordination of drunk college students and about as much sense.

But in my approach, I accidentally flushed one of the babies right out of the tree. It went sailing through the air like a fuzzy missile and landed somewhere in the yard. Now, there's no unstuffing a magpie back into its nest, so I figured I'd let the family sort this out like responsible birds should.

This was my first mistake.

I went inside to make breakfast, congratulating myself on my restraint. "Let nature take its course," I told myself. "Don't interfere." This is excellent advice that I was about to ignore completely.

An hour later, I stepped outside to eat and nearly tripped over a baby magpie. By the time I got the door slammed in the dogs' faces so they didn't escape and turned around, there were three of them total, each about the size of my fist—and I have hands like a lumberjack—all just sitting there like they'd given up on life entirely. Until their tail feathers grew out, they were unable to fly.

Now, any reasonable person would have walked away. Any reasonable person would have understood that this was not their problem to solve. But I am not, as we've established, a reasonable person.

I decided to become a magpie shepherd. I could fix this.

The pine tree branches hung low, practically creating a natural staircase back to safety. This should be easy, I thought. I'll just gently encourage them back to the tree. What could go wrong?

Everything. Everything could go wrong.

The baby magpies had apparently inherited their parents' talent for drama. Instead of hopping toward safety, they huddled together like they were auditioning for a production of "Les Misérables." Meanwhile, Mom and Dad were unleashing a torrent of magpie profanity from the fence that would have made a sailor weep. I don't speak fluent magpie, but "FUCK OFF AND DIE, HUMAN" translates pretty universally across species.

After twenty minutes of this—me making encouraging noises, the babies looking at me like I was suggesting they juggle fire, the parents threatening to call the bird equivalent of Child Protective Services—I managed to get them vaguely near the tree. Victory! I went inside, pleased with my wildlife management skills.

This was my second mistake.

When I came back out twenty minutes later, the three babies had somehow relocated to the front yard. Not just away from the tree—the complete opposite direction from the tree. It was like they'd held a meeting and decided that since I wanted them to go one way, they'd go the other way, just to spite me.

What followed was an afternoon that can only be described as Groundhog Day directed by someone with a twisted sense of humor. I would herd the magpies back toward the tree. They would wait until I went inside, then relocate to the furthest possible point from safety. The dogs, meanwhile, were staging what appeared to be a revolution at the back door, with the Holy Terror leading the charge in a series of increasingly creative attempts to escape.

It was ninety-seven degrees. Did I mention that? I was sweating through my shirt. The magpie parents were treating me like I was personally responsible for every bad thing that had ever happened to their species. And the babies—the babies were just sitting there, looking at me with an expression that somehow managed to convey both helplessness and judgment.

By late afternoon, I was beginning to understand why people turn to drink. Every time I thought I'd solved the problem, I'd discover it had multiplied. It was like trying to solve a Rubik's cube that kept adding more squares.

Finally, as the sun started to set, I had to admit defeat. The sheep needed feeding, again, the Holy Terror was on the verge of a bladder emergency, and I was starting to hallucinate from the heat. I stepped outside one last time and found not three, but five baby magpies lined up against the side of the house like a feathered firing squad. They were as far from the pine tree as you could get without leaving the property entirely.

The owls would be out soon, and these babies were basically a drive-through menu for anything with talons and an appetite.

I was contemplating whether this qualified as an official wildlife emergency when something remarkable happened. One by one, these babies started struggling toward the six-foot fence at the edge of the property. Not toward the tree—toward the fence. And beyond the fence, I could see Mom and Dad magpie, calling to them from the edge of the forest.

Think we can convince Mom & Dad to move somewhere accessible next year?

That's when the lightbulb went off. This wasn't rescue day. This wasn't lost baby day. This was moving day. Forever moving day. These kids were leaving home, and I'd spent the entire afternoon being the world's most enthusiastic helicopter parent, basically following college freshmen around campus with a security blanket.

Even the littlest one, who looked like he was bench-pressing his own body weight with each hop, made it over that fence. By the time the moon came up, the great magpie exodus was complete, and all was quiet on the Western front.

I learned a very important lesson that day: Sometimes the best way to help is to pour yourself a drink, sit on the porch, and let Mother Nature handle her own family drama. She's been doing this job a lot longer than any of us, and she doesn't need a consultation from some sweaty human with a savior complex.

The magpies, I'm pretty sure, are still laughing about it.

And BELMF and the Holy Terror? It took several high-dollar treats to buy back their love, but chaos levels eventually returned to normal.

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Images ©2025 Gael MacLean