The Toad perched on my birdfeeder in early February, his beak in the air, eyeing the mealworms I put out every day for the bluebirds, was actually a robin. I called him Toad because he stood there giving me the quiet stare of a toad.

The robin is the first sign of spring, but it certainly wasn't spring. I didn't realize this robin sighting was going to turn into a confrontation. Sure he'd eat from the feeders, I figured, probably go for the suet. But before he left, we had quite a skirmish, and that robin learned to count to three.

Our first encounter happened as I was sitting in my observation chair on a snowy day, surrounded by bird books and needlepoint watching the large flocks of pine siskins and counting the adorable bluebirds posed on the mealworm station. Swoosh, chirp, chirp, chirp, and Toad had scared away the bluebirds and was sitting on the edge of the dish with three mealworms in his beak.

"Oh, this could be a problem! But maybe he'll go away," I thought. But another swoosh and he was at it again. My first concern was that he might stay all winter and it was only February. At the rate he ate mealworms, I'd have to use our 401k to feed both him and the blues. Anxiety was taking over. I was going to have to come up with a plan to get this bird to move on.

Possible solutions ran through my brain. Could I screen him out? (But how would the bluebirds eat?) Maybe lure the blues to the back of the house with another mealworm station? (Not sure they would find it.)Try to feed each species at different times of the day? (Birds can't tell time.) I was getting desperate as days went by and Toad kept making his attacks.

When all seemed to be lost, it dawned on me: Maybe I could train him to take only a few and then leave.
I knew he could see me in the window, as he had tried several times to stare me down. (He usually blinked first.) What if I could get him to count to three, the number of worms I'd allow him to take at any single swoosh? Worth a try.

First attempt, Toad came to the feeding station, perched on the edge and looked at me. He took one worm, paused, and looked at me. He did it again with a little more confidence, still giving me the eye. One more attempt, and I jumped at him waving my arms. He flew off.

Within five minutes he was back again, looking for me in the window. I was there. He moved in for the first mealworm and paused back on the edge. The second attempt went well, but with the third he took the mealworm, looked at me, and before I could yell, he was gone.

The next day dawned cold and clear. I heard his chirp, chirp, before 6 a.m. Not yet ready for battle, I snoozed until 8, knowing there weren't any mealworms in the dish. At 8, I put out 20. Toad had been eyeing me from the gutter, appearing to casually admire the view while secretly making plans for his next meal. Swoosh, there he was. He made his first attempt, then confidently caught his second and third. With the third in his beak, though, he didn't leave, just sat there looking at me. When he moved in for a fourth, I yelled! Stunned, he took off.

Well, Toad was smart but not as smart as I was. He figured out when there was no one in the window, it was open season-push out the bluebirds and party on. I decided to slow down his gorging by propping something human-like in my chair. Out came an old three-foot-tall stuffed doll that had belonged to my daughter.

While the doll didn't have my personality, she did fill the chair, giving a fairly good impression. Now the acid test: Will she scare off Toad?

For the next two days, the doll worked pretty well. Toad took his three mealworms, and I didn't have to yell at him. We even got into counting together, one and he looked up, two and he looked up, and three and he took off.

Wow! Maybe this was going to work. The doll in my chair slowed down the decimation of mealworms, and Toad had learned to count. For now, we'd struck a detente.

Unfortunately, Toad figured out the doll trick, and I was back to square one. What was I going to do now? I didn't have to come up with a new strategy.

Toad suddenly disappeared. He simply vanished. No more chirp, chirp. Gone. I must say I was a little hurt. Why would any bird leave such a choice location? But the blues were back and everything returned to normal.

By Suzy Martin, Master Gardener