Kinsler: The Drinking Bird returns from rebab and finds a home

A few months ago I was determined to de-clutter my half of the office, an operation requiring a dedicated corps of laborers with shovels. There are lost civilizations under there. As I continued the excavation I came upon a small cardboard box emblazoned with the legend, “Drinking Happy Bird.” Below that is the woke subtext, “Once he/she starts drinking, he/she won’t stop.”

To my surprise, the delicate glass occupant had survived all these years unbroken. You’ve seen them: he is essentially a glass tube with bulb at each end. One bulb takes the form of a bird head covered with red felt, further adorned with a blue plastic top hat and a pair of goofy-looking eyes. The other bulb was once provided with a pair of yellow feathers that are mostly missing. The entire faux fowl pivots on a red plastic stand that is meant to look like bird legs.

He is filled with a red liquid called methylene chloride. This is the same stuff that those bubbling Christmas lights* are filled with: it boils at about 100°F and probably won’t poison the children.

So I set him on our kitchen windowsill with a shot-glass filled with water, immersed his red head briefly, and watched as the water in the soaked red felt evaporated. The evaporation cools and thus contracts the air in his head, which draws the liquid from the lower bulb up to his head. The weight of the drawn-up liquid overbalances Mr Bird, causing his long, felt-covered bill to dip into the shot-glass of water, which re-wets his head for the next cycle.

It's not perpetual motion, nor is he powered by water. The energy comes from the temperature difference between the two bulbs: his head is cold from evaporation, and his tail is at room temperature. In physics, we call him a ‘heat engine,’ and you can read his history and operating theory at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drinking_bird

Mr Bird generally cooperates, dipping and swinging with vigor provided the water level is maintained. We each check his condition whenever we walk past. There are several other members of this exclusive group: whenever I walk through our house, I check to see if Webster the Cat, 16, is still breathing, if Gemma the Cat still lives, skitter my fingers spider-like over Natalie’s back and/or muss her hair, check the condition of kitty food and water, and check to see if Mr Bird continues to function. Natalie does much the same, though upon awakening her first contact with the World of the Conscious is to load and launch her beloved Black and Decker one-cup coffee maker.

I think his presence on the windowsill says a lot about the joint life we lead, for while both of us are educated and reasonably well-acquainted with the fine arts, our house contains little of it: Mr Bird and the two cats nicely fulfill that particular niche.

*Natalie says that bubbling Christmas lights are gone, but Walmart and Amazon still sell ‘em.

Mark Kinsler, kinsler33@gmail.com, lives with Natalie and the aforementioned cats in our 1888 house in Lancaster, erected during those thrilling days of yesteryear.

This article originally appeared on Lancaster Eagle-Gazette: Kinsler: The Drinking Bird returns from rebab