The sharp, raspy call introduced a certain harshness into the otherwise peaceful solitude of an early November afternoon. I had been enjoying the stillness as I sat on my patio, neatly tucked into the space where the floor of the sun porch met the rear wall of my Cape Cod-style home.

The call came again…chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee. I directed my eyes to the arbor on my left and looked up into the yellowing leaves clinging to the hardy-kiwi vine. There on the vine, perched in a defiant stance better suited for a larger, more intimidating bird, the black-capped chickadee once more sounded the call, which seemed directed solely toward me and which seemed to be chastising me for having failed to perform some duty.

Just behind the chickadee hung the brown, metal bird feeder. “It’s empty,” I thought. “I put out the last load of black-oil sunflower seed before the end of March.” Could this bird be one of those who spent a good part of the past winter feeding here? If so, he (or she) must remember and realize that I am the person responsible for filling it.”

I scanned the area for other chickadees, thinking perhaps that this one was calling to family members, rather than actually trying to influence me. But he was alone and none of his species, or any other species, responded to the call.

“Very curious,” I thought. “I’ll have to remember to pick up some more seed.”

Days went by. I completed several shopping trips without remembering to pick up food for my avian neighbors. But the chickadee, being considerably younger and hungrier than I, persisted.

A week later, we replayed the scene on the patio. I sat and he complained. Of course, I assumed it was the same individual bird, though it could have been another. To me, chickadees look and sound alike, and their quickness and smallness make it difficult to spot any unique characteristics. However, the message was clear: if I didn’t refill the feeder soon, there would be consequences.

In all seriousness, I didn’t fear the wrath of a lone chickadee. It was more compassion than fear that motivated me to respond to the threat. Besides, the black-capped chickadee is such a loveable creature. Most New Englanders admire these creatures for their daring, precision and crowd-pleasing antics.

Necessity found me at the store the next day, and the bird-badgering had occurred recently enough to joggle a few brain cells into recalling the need for sunflower seeds. I managed to get the 25-lb sack into the car and back to the house where the empty bird feeder hung. The seed, being bulky and not immediately necessary, sat on the passenger-side of the front seat for a couple more days. Then, once again I was reminded by the tiny-but-vocal bird, with a black patch appearing like a perfectly-aligned toupee, that it was time to act.

It was dusk before I found it convenient to fill the feeder. The following afternoon, I glanced out the window in the kitchen and noticed a significant amount of avian activity at the feeder. The chickadees would flit in, grab a seed and retreat to the kiwi vine. The finches tended to secure the perch and remain on the feeder, selecting seed, until forced off by more aggressive individuals.

I wondered how the word spread so quickly that there was now food at the site. Who discovered it, and how was the discovery communicated to the others?

Later, I assumed my customary post near the feeder on my patio chair to catch the fleeting warmth of late afternoon sun. I’d put on thick socks under my open-toed sandals to protect against the cool cement surface of the patio slab. I crossed my legs with the right ankle resting on my left knee, admired what remained of the autumn foliage, and contemplated the stack of cordwood in the yard.

My reverie was disturbed suddenly by a flutter of tiny wings as a lone chickadee dropped from my roof and flew directly toward me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him approach and land directly on the tip of my large toe. He perched there for several seconds, seemingly aware that I was alive and not a mere statue.

At first, I felt pleased to share this moment with such a loveable creature, sure that he was honoring me for having supplied the life-sustaining seed. Then suddenly, it became clear to me that my status as master over the lowly chickadee was being called into question.

Could that look in his steely, dark eye convey more than simple appreciation for my kindness? Perhaps the chickadee meant to deliver a warning that future neglect might result in punishment—a sharp peck on my toe, for instance.

This episode will give me something to ponder as I dutifully fill the feeder during the frigid winter days ahead.

Robert Powell Hughes, UNH Cooperative Extension Community Marine Docent