The Magpie
This morning, I opened the studio window as I do every morning. But the pigeons' nest on the ledge was occupied by a magpie. Startled by the noise, she turned toward me and began to screech. Like a Pavlovian reflex, I slammed the glass shut and jumped backward, hitting my leg against the cabinet.
That stare. That sound.
It was late autumn 2022 - a year when everything had happened. We were slowly emerging from a period even heavier than the one we were living through, just trying to return to some form of normality. And normality, among other things, meant sitting at my desk around the same time each morning, soft jazz in the background, running through my usual checks. Small rituals. Anchors.
For a few days, something unusual had been happening. Curious, almost pleasant. A magpie had taken to perching on my windowsill and peering inside. This happens sometimes - especially with pigeons. But there was something different: even when I stood up from my chair, she stayed. Magpies are intelligent creatures, I thought. She probably understands the glass is closed and I pose no threat. I saw it as something positive, if odd.
As days passed, she came more often. Stayed longer. At some point, she began tapping her beak against the glass. Insistently. Obsessively. I didn't pay it much attention and went on with my life.
Until that afternoon.
I had decided to replace the old intercom - we couldn't do without one, but replacing the entire system was out of the question. I went outside with everything I needed and started dismounting the old unit. I stepped back for a moment to figure out where to mount the new device. Suddenly, she landed on the low wall in front of me, right on top of my screwdrivers and the new intercom. I barely had time to register the scene before she launched herself straight at my eyes.
I ducked. She circled around me, then returned to the wall. I took out my phone to record, tried to back away, but she kept attacking. She pecked violently at my jacket, damaging it, then flew back to the wall. I tried to run inside, but she was faster. She landed on my head - even as I moved - and tried to reach my eyes. Instinctively, I extended my arm, hoping for the perch effect. She calmed immediately and settled on it. I froze. All I could do was take out my phone and capture the moment. Then I thought: I need to get back inside, somehow. But seconds later, she began hopping up my arm toward my head again.
A truck passed close by, disturbing her enough to make her fly to the balcony ledge. I seized the moment and ran for the door. As I opened it to enter, she tried to jump on me and follow me inside. I slammed the door and inadvertently caught her between the door and the frame. She kept trying to enter. Finally, I managed to close it.
No one fully believed me. My wife did, but she hadn't quite grasped the extent of it. We locked ourselves inside. For a few days, we didn't see her. I convinced myself the blows against the door had injured her - perhaps killed her. I felt guilty. I hadn't wanted to hurt her. I just hadn't wanted her to hurt me.
The morning of 6th December, I was tired of staring at the monitor and suggested a walk to my wife. She agreed. The air was humid but not too cold. As soon as we stepped outside, we started our usual route, but my wife noticed something on the garden wall. It was her. Distant, but I recognized her voice immediately. Before I could look closer, she arrived, landing on my wife's head. My wife panicked and ran toward the house, but the more she fled, the more the bird insisted. She targeted her hair and pecked - fortunately the hood offered some protection. But the path to the front door wasn't short. I threw myself at the bird to drive her away, which worked. For a few seconds. As we neared the door, she returned, screeching relentlessly. I yanked the door open and tried to get my wife inside, but the bird wouldn't let go. I waved my arms, tried to push her away with my hands, but she had clamped down with her claws. Finally I managed, and my wife got inside - but the bird came back for me. I barely made it in, nearly crushing her in the door again.
The security cameras captured everything. Including what she did afterward: she perched on the boiler pipe, puffed up her feathers triumphantly, and flew away.
We contacted the authorities. At the carabinieri station, they didn't take us seriously - until I showed them the video. Then they called the local wildlife protection office immediately.
The following days were a nightmare. The magpie had learned our schedules. Every time I opened a window, she would attack or try to enter. She would station herself on my windowsill for hours, pecking at the glass, working at the rubber seal as if trying to break through. Screeching while she knocked. We couldn't go outside during the day anymore. We couldn't set foot beyond our door: she was there, waiting.
The mail carrier rang. There was a letter requiring a signature. Strangely, she was in her van. I couldn't go out and asked her to take it to the post office, where I'd pick it up. I explained it was because of a deranged magpie. She almost smiled with relief: "So it's not just me. This is why I don't get out of the car around here anymore. She attacks me. Always. It's like a horror film".
We only went out after sunset. Talking with neighbors, we discovered the bird had a precise pattern. She attacked women, younger men, and children. But she was playful and friendly with elderly men. She had injured someone's eye a few days earlier, not far from us. A girl's ear - someone who lived across from our window. She knew when that girl would return from work and would position herself there, waiting. All of this captured by our cameras.
The neighborhood divided. Everyone who had been attacked pushed for something to be done. The others resisted. "She's a free, playful animal. You're clearly the aggressive ones, and she's just defending herself.". So much for community spirit.
Meanwhile, despite reporting to every possible authority, nothing moved. A game of responsibility - which no one wanted - while people walked around with umbrellas for protection. In some cases, she entered through windows and attacked people inside their homes.
That February evening, the sun had already set, so we felt safer. The kitchen shutters were still open, as usual, and I decided to close them. I opened the window and looked around, even though it was dark. I felt calm: in the darkness, there's no danger. A dull thud of claws against the metal gutter and, in a flash, her screech announced the attack. She had been just above me, on the roof, ready to strike. Fortunately, the mosquito net was half-broken and she got partially tangled in it, giving me time to slam the window shut. The shutters stayed open until late that night. So did my eyes.
The next morning we woke to banging. It was barely dawn and she had started hurling herself against the shutters. Obsessively. Continuously. From the cameras I could see her: she would charge from the tree across the street, slam into the shutters, return to the tree, repeat. That day we didn't open the windows. We spent the entire day in darkness, using only electric lights.
The only way we could breathe was to take the car and drive away. To the city center, mostly. We felt safe only among the tall buildings, though every now and then a magpie's call would freeze us in place.
One early April afternoon, I had just made coffee. As I often do, I walked to the window - closed - to look outside. The horse chestnut had begun filling with leaves, a beautiful spectacle marking the start of the warm season. She was right there, on the chestnut tree. The moment she saw me, she launched herself with that unmistakable voice, slamming violently against the glass. She had a sort of crest raised: she was furious.
A very private neighbor had been unaware of the whole affair. Or rather, she knew something but hadn't had direct experience. She too thought the stories were exaggerated by local gossip. Until the magpie tried to attack her husband and then her little girls. Drawing on her civil protection contacts, she immediately took action. We sent her our video to strengthen the case. It was late afternoon and raining heavily. A phone call came: "They caught the magpie. They came to take my statement and she arrived on the scene, attacking even them. They should come to you - since you have the video - for a statement and an identification.".
Incredulous, I agreed immediately. It seemed strange that everything had gone smoothly. Too easy.
Two minutes later, the forestry service car arrived below our house. "Would you like to come see her, to confirm it's the same bird?"
I agreed. A neighbor came too - more for vindication than curiosity. As soon as they opened the trunk, we both jumped back. The magpie, the moment she saw us, began screaming and throwing herself violently against the walls of the cage. In that moment, I believe, she would have torn us apart. It was her. Without a shadow of doubt.
They came upstairs and took our statement, along with permission to include the video. They wouldn't harm the bird, they explained, but they would have to keep her somewhere she couldn't hurt anyone: a sanctuary for birds raised in captivity, unable to survive in the wild.
Like this magpie. And they told us her story.
She had been captured by an elderly man who, since she was a chick, had fed her and let her roam free in his home. She had become possessive and demanding, but never dangerous - with him. With his wife and children, however, probably out of jealousy, she was extremely aggressive. The man was very old, and eventually he died. His wife and children were afraid of the magpie but couldn't report it: magpies are protected and cannot be captured or kept in captivity. So they released her, several months before our first encounter. Perhaps a year earlier. The area was different, so she had likely wandered into our neighborhood in late summer 2022.
While they told us this, one of the officers received a call from colleagues outside: two elderly neighbors were circling the car, trying to open it. They wanted to free her. A criminal offense, but they didn't care. In their eyes, we were evil creatures for wanting "the capture" of that poor, defenseless animal. Even though she had injured dozens of people. Even though she was a direct and constant danger to children. The officers managed to send them away, though they remained angry and threatened legal action against us too.
The rain stopped. A timid ray of sunlight broke through the clouds. I looked up. I saw the trees full of leaves, felt the warmth on my skin and that particular scent that rises around the house just after rain.
I felt free.
I called my wife and asked if she wanted to take a walk. She said yes. We went out and, for the first time in months, returned to places that had been forbidden to us.
This morning, opening that window, I relived the nightmare for an instant. But this magpie, true to her nature, immediately flew away in the opposite direction. She had never known an old man's living room. She had never learned to see a human as home.
I left the window open for a few seconds, breathing in the humid air of the first real day of winter.