COLUMN: Hungry ‘butcher bird’ lives up to its nasty reputation

As I snowshoed along the edge of the field, the thick growth of raspberry canes tried to snag and hold me in their thorny grasp.

The woody stems grew in profusion along this stretch of the old farm fence, and several times before when I’ve visited this property I’ve had luck in finding a cottontail rabbit or ruffed grouse hiding in this prickly thicket; I was hoping that today’s outing would again be rewarded with some such discovery.

The day, however, had not been very productive. Despite a thin layer of new fallen snow, no tracks were noted. Even the birdlife was very quiet. Maybe it was just one of those days when the only benefit of the outing was good exercise. I was almost to the gate when I saw a smudge of brown and grey feathers within the stout canes.

Moving slowly, moving closer, I noticed that the bird wasn’t moving. Then I noticed why — it was dead. Dead, but hanging from a cane by its neck. The low angle of the morning sun highlighted the frost-tipped feathers, and backlighting made the beak and legs glow a warm, translucent yellow. Even in death, a certain beauty remained with this Tree Sparrow.

Had it been alive it could have easily flitted its way around the thorns of the old canes, but this bird had been deliberately placed here, caught by its feathers upon a few heavy barbs. But no tracks appeared in the snow, and the surrounding area had no indication of disturbance.

Hmmm, very odd. If a person had found the dead bird elsewhere, they probably would have put it in their pocket, buried it under the snow, or just left it laying. If a hawk or weasel killed it, they would have eaten it without hesitation. While I mulled these thoughts over in my mind, the answer to my questions flew in above my head.

A robin-sized bird landed atop a slender maple and scrutinized me from behind its black mask. The arrival of this slate grey bird with the long tail provided the answer to the sparrow mystery, as its nickname is ‘butcher bird’. Field guides will have it indexed under its more common name, Northern Shrike (rhymes with ‘strike’).

Although not in the hawk family, shrikes share raptorial characteristics such as feeding upon other living things, like mice, small birds, and insects. The sharp, hooked beak is also similar to that of a hawk, but the legs of the shrike are those of a perching bird, thereby being useless for holding prey while the beak tears off chunks of supper.

During the summer months, should you be so lucky as to discover a shrike, it would probably be a Loggerhead Shrike (very rare nowadays); in wintertime, the identification will probably be a Northern Shrike.

The Loggerheads migrate south to those States just below the snowline, and supposedly come back next springtime; but for reasons still being investigated, fewer and fewer of them are returning.

The Northern Shrike visits us in the winter months, coming from the boreal areas of the province. Not in flocks, but as scattered individuals across our region, often frequenting bird feeders as a source of food (not for the bird seed but rather the eaters of the bird seed).

In order to get their meal into bite-sized chunks, shrikes have developed a unique way to hold their prey. The carcass is impaled upon a barbed wire or hawthorn, thus holding it in place. The shrike can then dine immediately, or let the meal ‘tenderize’ for a while before consuming. Whenever frogs, mice or small birds are found hung like sides of beef in a butcher shop, you know shrikes are nearby.

Occasionally a stored meal will be forgotten, overlooked in favour of new, fresh food being available. But if the hunting is poor, there is always a bit in the larder waiting to be eaten. The little tree sparrow hanging from the raspberry cane was a future meal, held in deep freeze storage. Death for the sparrow ensured life for the shrike.

Although the death of an animal can be an uncomfortable topic for some people, it is a reality to be understood. We must learn about, and accept, death as being a very important part of nature. When it happens, and indeed it does with amazing regularity, it allows the living to go on living.

The shrike was obviously uncomfortable with my presence, so I opted to move along. Whether or not it fed on the sparrow after I left, I don’t know. I didn’t hang around as I, too, was getting hungry, and I had a cold chicken sandwich waiting for me back at the car.