Tufted Titmouse

Hooray! The tufted titmouse is here to give us a chance to practice the identification skills we picked up earlier in the guide. Like with many birds, the easiest way to identify titmouse vocalizations is by comparing them to other birds. The titmouse conveniently sounds like a cross between a black-capped chickadee and a blue jay on drugs (no surprise there, blue jay).

The Titmouse and the Babysitter’s BF

The tufted titmouse, although unfortunately named, thinks he’s a cool guy. Still, nobody could be as cool as his babysitter’s boyfriend. Little Tufted Tit reminds the couple they are there most exclusively to watch his cousin, Chickadee, who is already tucked into bed like a little baby. Tufted titmouse insists he gets to stay up late. To sound impressive, he imitates the cool babysitter’s boyfriend, Blue Jay. Remember, Jay often shrieks,

“Jay! Jay! Jay!”

Tufted Titmouse gives this a try. He calls out his own name— sort of. Tufted Titmouse rightly hates his given name, and insists others call him Peter.

“Peter! Peter! Peter!”

He calls in a voice that sounds similar to the jay’s clownish cop whistle impression. Titmouse is trying for anything but clownish. He takes himself most seriously.

Jay shows no interest, only mild irritation. Titmouse wants to stay up late with the big kids. He tries another tac. He knows about jay’s little hobby. He announces this knowledge to the world, hoping jay will be impressed,

“Weeder! Weeder! Weeder!”

That’s the 6th grader word for what the upper levels are doing when they skip class at Tufted Titmouse Academy. Neither the babysitter nor her boyfriend are impressed. Titmouse tries again— acts like the others are missing the joke,

“Neener! Neener! Neener!”

He won’t quit. He sings out his poor imitation of the blue jay’s whistle even after the babysitter threatens she’ll tell Grandma EVERYTHING.

A Brief Anecdote on Chickadee’s Rivalry with Cousin Titmouse (and Grandma’s Bias)

By day, Tufted Titmouse really does feel like a cool guy. He can tell his cousin, the black-capped chickadee, envies him for his size, his crest, his golden fringed vest, his big city accent. Chickadee does envy him, but takes solace in the knowledge that no one will ever grace Grandma’s walls like he does. Titmouse may be cool, but chickadee is beloved.

Despite the Name, Let’s Get Serious

The tufted titmouse is in fact cousin to the chickadee. Chickadees and titmice reside in the family Paridae. The titmouse is larger and more aggressive than the chickadee, but the cousins can be found foraging in the same flocks. They share many physical and behavioral traits, but the titmouse is larger and often more aggressive.

If you hear something that sounds like it could be a chickadee’s cousin with a big city accent, check it out. Titmice often repeat the “dee-dee-dee” part that’s familiar from the chickadee call. When they say it, it’s buzzier, messier, and often louder.

During breeding season, if you hear that call interspersed with a song that sounds like a chemically impared jay doing its traffic cop clownish whistle, you may be on the trail of a titmouse.

The titmouse insistently repeats its two syllable song. Like chickadees, titmice remain relatively (relatively!— everyone has boundaries that should be honored!) unperturbed by the presence of people, meaning if you are respectful about it, you can poke around and track them down without scaring them away. Like chickadees, they’re cavity nesters that travel in mixed winter flocks. If you’re catching sight of a titmouse in winter, keep your eyes and ears peeled for chickadees, nuthatches, and woodpeckers. If you are hearing a lot from them in spring, keep on the lookout for promising nesting cavities. What could be more adorable than a baby titmouse?

Around southern Wisconsin anyhow, titmice are less common than chickadees. With their fancy crest and sleek plummage (that is just the absolute most fun and perfect color to paint with watercolor), they are a true gem of a bird. Catching a glimpse of one of these guys is always a treat.

Titmouse song sounds a lot like the jay’s whistle but always made of two notes repeated.

Titmouse call demonstrates their relation to chickadees with the repeated “Dee-dee-dee.”

Blue Jay

Blue jays squall their way through busy days, calling out their own name with shouts of, “Jay, Jay, Jay, Jay!”

They are kind of full of themselves like that.

Blue jays make many other nuanced vocalizations that can be tricky to place if their calls are new to you. Good thing when blue jays are around, you’ll usually know it (unless they are in the process of being sneaky, quietly trying to steal eggs to eat from other bird’s nests or hiding their own nests from other predators).

Compared to most passerines (birds that perch), blue jays are on the larger end. With a prominent crest, bright blue feathers, and bold black and white markings, blue jays are easy to visually identify.

I’m sharing blue jays early in the guide because they make a good comparison bird when you’re learning upcoming species.

Blue jays are brighter, bluer, louder, and bigger than most songbirds.

Blue jays travel in noisy flocks, acting as if they are well-aware of their status as “the most” of everything. They’re like the cool guy trouble-makers, the stars of the high school hockey team or something—some slightly more alternative sport than football. They get great grades in school, but they do things that get them sent to detention on the regular. In fact, if blue jays were on the hockey team, they’d be much like my high school hockey team of yore after half the team got suspended for getting caught smoking pot. The jays would definitely get caught because when they’re not talking about themselves, they’re still yelling “jay,” only it’s for other reasons. They are a boisterous bunch.

With a big case of the munchies, groups are known to descend upon birdfeeders to throw seed-scattering parties. Sometimes at these parties, the comic of the crew will show off extra by throwing around a few vocal impressions. The blue jay’s impressions repertoire is somewhat limited with the best impression being that of the red-shouldered hawk. Sometimes, she’ll also let loose a whistle, as if impersonating another wearer of blue—an  officer of the law. The whistle is only an impression—meant to sound like a clownlike, mocking version of the real thing.

Top Left: Classic jay call.

Top Right: Jay’s best red-shouldered hawk impression.

Bottom Left: Jay’s clownish traffic cop whistle.

Anyhow, whenever a group of jays squalls its way through my neck of the woods, I feel lucky to share a bit of the day with them. They keep track of all the goings on around their neighborhood, so hanging with them for awhile means you become privy to their insider knowledge of their home turf. Blue jays are known to mob (pester, make a fuss about, chase, generally reveal then annoy) avian predators. If you hear an unusually large commotion from jays, investigate and you might be rewarded with an owl sighting. Following jays can also lead you to food sources used by other wildlife, smaller songbird’s nests (and maybe some morbidity—a jay’s gotta eat), or just a visual spectacle—especially in fall when their blue feathers match the sky and contrast with the golds of a turning sugar maple.

Chickadee

Listen to their song at Cornell Bird Lab and you can decide, chickadee or cheeseburger… or none of the above.

On Calls Versus Songs

Hey girl? Cheeseburger? Don’t chickadees just say, “chickadee?”

Chickadee Song: Two long, drawn out whistles with a bump of a third sylable inbetween.

Chickadee Call: Familiar call from multiple individuals.

Chickadees do say chickadee, but their repertoire doesn’t stop there. Like most birds, chickadees use a variety of vocalizations. In the birding world, vocalizations are distinguished as either calls or songs. When the chickadee says, “Chickadee-dee-dee,” she’s calling. Birds call to communicate all sorts of things—things that range from their location, to what they are eating, to their alarm over a passing predator.

Someday I hope to write all about calls because like most everything about birds, calls are cool. The chickadee for example changes its signature, “Chick-a-dee” call to suit the situation. If a chickadee perceives a threat, it will call out to alert members of its mixed-species flock. As the level of perceived threat increases, so do the number of “dees” tagged onto the end of a chickadee’s call. Where a passing shadow might elicit a “dee-dee” a lurking cat could get a “dee-dee-dee-dee.” And know what else is cool—all the birds in that mixed-species flock can translate calls from the other species in the flock. That means, in this example, everybody in the flock knows if the chickadee is talking about a threat from above or below.

I could continue on with call coolness, but this is the Birdsong Blog, not the Bird Call Blog.

Birds most often sing as part of territorial displays and/or to attract a mate. For the most part, singing is a seasonal affair that coincides with breeding. Like everybody, birds get competitive about access to potential mates, food, and suitable nest sites. Singing plays the dual role of telling suitors, “Here I am, look how fit I am,” and telling competition, “I am here. I am fit, and if you want what I got, well then, prepare for a duel (quite likely in song).”

It’s all much less romantic than Snow White would have you believe.

Anyhow, chickadees call year-round, but around here they start to sing when winter hits its death throes. Their singing tapers again as nesting gets into full swing come mid-summer.

On Cheeseburger Verus Hey Girl

The chickadee’s song sounds something like they are saying in a high descending whistle, “cheeseburger” and/or “hey girl”.

Take a listen for yourself. It’s a simple song, pitched towards melancholy for us depressive types (who isn’t suffering from SAD by the time the first chickadees sing each year?). To me, the chickadee’s song is an example of the type that once you get one positive ID to confirm that, yup, for sure that was a chickadee singing, you’ll never forget it. It’s common. It’s distinct. Hearing those plaintive notes after so much winter silence hits with emotional force.

So why then do we have to go and ruin it by telling ourselves, “Listen, he’s saying cheeseburger!”?

If you’re coming into this not in the know, bird nerds (and people trying to ruin my day) far and wide say the chickadee’s song sounds like he’s saying, “cheeseburger.” This really sticks in my craw. I don’t hear it. I don’t want to hear it. Literally, I rarely hear the middle syllable of the chickadee’s supposed cheeseburger. I’m like, “What? Cheese burg? What’s a cheese burg? Is it like, an iceberg of cheese? Did this chickadee have a harrowing encounter with this thing called a cheese burg?”

The absurdity—to turn a song that causes this listener to feel briefly that the whole of the monarch migration has pit-stopped in her belly into a message that conveys cheeseburger.

On Anthropomorphism as Pertains to Cheeseburgers and Memes

Anthropomorphism. At risk of becoming tedious (as all discussions on words containing 15 or more letters inevitably become), I’m on the side of anthropomorphizing. Doing so gives us stories and stories give us context and context helps us understand the true nature of the happenings all around us. Understanding nature’s nature comes from building connection. If we need that anthropomorphic boost to find a way to scrounge up a thread of connection, then great, let’s go for it.

But cheeseburger? Why would a chickadee even be talking about a cheeseburger? As this guide evolves, I will anthropomorphize a lot. I hope to do so in a way that plays off characteristics that speak to a species’ ecology, life history, observed behavior, etc.

I don’t want to associate this or any song that melts my heart anew each spring with some dumb nothing that someone thought was cute.

“Hey girl” is my answer to cheeseburger. I fear it’s another dumb nothing, but at least it’s my dumb nothing. As a practice, dumb nothings of your own are quite handy so long as you realize its futile to cling to something that’s essentially nothing.

With hey girl, I’m thinking of the Ryan Gosling memes, of this super hunk doing whatever just right to win your heart. The chickadee is the super hunk of birds. Chickadees top out at a few measly ounces, and yet they persevere through the harshest of winter landscapes without letting those few ounces freeze to feather fluff icicles… or worse… chickadee cheese burgs.

Spring comes, and the chickadees are alive, and they’re like, “We’re alive. We’d better get to making babies!”

And off they go to sing their baby-making song that sounds to me like this real earnest, quiet kind of guy who is just so in touch with his feelings, so confident his territory has some good nest-making tree cavities, that he’s like, “Hey girl. Heeey, gurl. Hey. Girl.”

If you made it this far, you can handle a little unsolicited advice. Well, maybe it’s solicited. This is like an advice column for nascent birders. The advice: Get up early—like sunrise early. Go outside. Listen. You’ll hear it, and you’ll go, “Ooooh, I hear it.” From that day forth with a bit of luck and a smidge of resolve, the next time you hear a chickadee sing, your mind will have nothing to do with cheeseburgers or memes because you’ll be busy thinking of that sunrise when you first knew you were listening to the song of the super hunk chickadee.