Last week I was driving by the Ashokan reservoir, as one does, when I spotted an enormous bald eagle perched magnificently atop a dead tree. As is always the case when I see one of these astounding creatures, I began screaming, “Eagle! Eagle! Eagle!” at the top of my lungs. Under normal circumstances this reaction might be slightly embarrassing but, in this case, it was particularly ridiculous as I was alone in the car. It’s the kind of behavior one might expect if you see a yeti or Nessie or an owl eating a snake that’s eating a frog but not from seeing a bird in a tree. Side note: I actually saw an owl trying to swallow a garter snake with a frog halfway down its throat. It was kind of the Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom version of a turducken. You may have to look up what Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom is, or perhaps even a turducken, but if you’re not feeling a Google hole in your future you can just trust your gut on this one.

Regardless, if you found a turducken lying on the road you’d have some sort of extreme reaction as well but I assume it would be more of a “WTF?” than shouting, “Turducken! Turducken! Turducken!” to yourself. That’s an assumption on my part, of course. People handle stress and excitement in very different ways. I can’t help it, though. There’s something about bald eagles that triggers my inner glee. (Interesting fact: The Inner Glee was the name of my high school choral ensemble.) (Another interesting fact: That’s totally not true.)

I’m not sure why I am the way I am. My mom would say it’s because I lacked structure as a child. I never knew exactly what she meant but I think she’s implying I should have been locked up in something unescapable. I wasn’t, she didn’t, so here we are, but that doesn’t offer any conclusive insight into why I fangirl bald eagles so much. Part of it must be that when I was growing up there was a countrywide conversation going on about the disappearance of these beautiful birds. A national treasure was being destroyed by acid rain or nukes or explicit rap lyrics or something. I’m not really sure what the problem was but I was given the distinct feeling that there was like one, maybe two, bald eagles left in the world. I did always wonder how they knew that was the case. It’s got to be hard to count eagles. How would you know you weren’t counting the same one over and over again? They don’t wear hats or shoes or anything to differentiate one from another. Every 10 years we hear how difficult the U.S. Census is and we have addresses and phone numbers for most folks. But eagles don’t have street numbers or mailboxes on their eyries. How would they even hang them? They’d never be able to hold a hammer, let alone a nail. Raccoons could totally hang stuff if they wanted to. Not eagles, though. No way.

Animal census skepticism aside, I bought the party line that the eagles were dying off and perhaps that information is still lingering in the old beanpot somewhere, making a sighting feel like a rare and magical event. Of course, they don’t seem so endangered anymore. There’s one that comes around the house and the last time I saw it I almost broke the screen door trying to get out into the yard. It seemed really important that I run across the lawn and point up at it while again yelling, “Eagle! Eagle! Eagle!” I was alone and shirtless, so Migaloo was fully exposed, which gives the whole tableau a darkly comic feel. It might also explain why my neighbors are so into privacy trees and hedges. Side note: Migaloo is what I nicknamed my untanned belly. It’s an Aboriginal word that means “white fella.” It’s also the name of an actual white whale that’s been spotted off the coast of Australia. I’m not sure which came first, my ever-so-slightly engorged paunch or this albino humpback, but naming your body parts is something I generally encourage. It’s helpful in communicating things, like when I’m hungry I can say “Migaloo wants cupcakes! Migaloo loves cupcakes!” and everyone in my family knows precisely what I mean. They don’t actually bring Migaloo any cupcakes but they know what I’m saying.

My eagle-induced freakouts might also be caused by the visage of these creatures, their whole ensemble. They’re huge. They’re majestic. They’re apex predators. Not to mention, they seem so stern all the time. Have you ever seen an eagle smile or look anything other than fierce? I’m not even sure the mechanics of their faces allow for any other emotions. They have resting flinty face. I wouldn’t want to date one. Don’t get me wrong. At first it would be pretty cool to show up at a restaurant with a bald eagle on my arm, always getting the steak tartare pour deux, but once the honeymoon period is over that relationship is probably gonna suck. Can you say emotionally unavailable? How about fear of vulnerability? Uh uh. Swipe left.

Then there’s the mythology that surrounds the bald eagle. They represent strength and stoicism, which means they have really high status as far as merch goes. Eagles are on cool things like seals, shields, crests, flags, and sigils. You don’t see frogs or crickets on those things. Eagles have high-end brand attributes. They’re the Louis Vuitton of the animal kingdom. Crickets are probably Amazon Essentials and frogs might be Fruit of the Loom. Also, when you see eagles on a piece of merch, like say … the presidential seal, they’re always holding weapons or olive branches. I’m not even sure frogs could hold a handful of arrows and even if they could I just don’t think it would look all that great for a wartime president to be addressing the nation behind a lectern garnished with a frog trying to grasp a handful of darts in its little paws. Not intimidating. In fact, what’s the opposite of intimidating? Comforting, maybe? Sounds like the frog seal would be better used if the president was selling soup or weighted blankets rather than briefing us on drone strikes. The long and short of it is that the eagle holds high status in our society and that might be the reason I get a little yeasty when I see one.

Truth be told, as far as my own embarrassing behavior goes this barely makes the list. If I scream and point and yell every time I catch a glimpse of the old Haliaeetus leucocephalus then so be it. They’re awesome and I’m a simpleton. A match made in heaven. Of course, we did just get some new chicks in our flock and if that stupid bird snatches one out of the yard I’m going to lose my sh*t, even if he is carrying a bunch of arrows. Migaloo loves his eggs.