A call comes in for a “person bit by vicious bird.”

My partner, Bronson, says, “You be Tippi Hedren, and I’ll be the guy in the sharp suit.”

“Deal,” I say. “I always wanted to be a movie star.”

We arrive at a two-story house in East Flatbush to find a woman in a flowered housedress standing with her screen door open. “What’s going on?” Bronson asks. “Anybody injured?”

“No,” she says, “but that damn bird almost pecked my eye out.”

We look around and see nothing. “What bird?”

“The past few days, those birds have been going crazy!” she says.

We repeat: “What birds?”

She points. “See that bush over there?” There’s some shrubbery and tall weeds by the corner. “They have a nest in there.”

Bronson whispers to me, “She’s cuckoo.” But there’s definitely a break in the branches of one of the bushes, and sure enough, a bird flies out and lands on the telephone wire overhead. My eye travels across it. There are three more birds lined up, staring at us with beady eyes.

I go over to the bush and peer inside it. At least eight birds sitting on their nests look back at me. “There’s a flock of birds in here,” I say.

A dilapidated Ford Escort parks nearby, and an elderly man sees me looking into the bushes. “What are you here for? The birds? Damn varmints nipped me the other day as I went to take out my trash!” he says.

I go back to where Bronson is standing, telling the woman the police are also responding to the call and will probably send in the ASPCA. I look up to see a long tailed bird hopping wildly from wire to wire, chirping weirdly.

“That old man said the birds attacked him the other day,” I report to them.

The police arrive and take down the woman’s statement, then the elderly man’s. Then they go over to look inside the bush. One of them parts the shrubs gingerly with his nightstick. The other one backs off. “I ain’t gettin’ near that,” he says, reaching for his radio, and calls for the ASPCA.

“Yeah, let them handle it,” the first cop says. “Maybe they’ll send over that cute Annemarie Lucas.” He’s referring to the ASPCA officer from the cable-TV program “Animal Precinct.”

Bronson can’t believe it. “Wait a minute. You guys are trained to catch terrorists, but you can’t catch a couple of birds?” he says.

The second cop says, “Crazy people are one thing. Crazy animals are another.”

“They’re defending their nests,” I say. “Really, we should just leave them alone.”

Everybody stares at me.

“Okay, fine,” I say. “Call Annemarie Lucas. Whatever.” Bronson suddenly gets macho. “I want to see those birds.” He points to the jumpy bird on the wire. “Keep an eye on that one. If he moves, shout.”

The bird hops from foot to foot, ready to defend its nest, as Bronson walks over and peers into the bush. As he’s looking in, the bird dive-bombs his head.

“Watch out!” I shout.

He turns, sees the kamikaze bird, and ducks just in time as it swoops past him. The bird comes in for a second attack, going for Bronson’s head again.

“I told you!” the woman cries, running for cover inside her house. The elderly man jumps back into his car and locks the doors.

While diving to the ground, Bronson cuts his hand on some broken glass on the pavement. As if to add insult to injury, the vicious bird pecks him once on the head, drawing blood, before swooping away and settling back on the wire. They’re both nasty cuts; he’s bleeding from two germ-ridden places and needs to go to a hospital to get disinfected. I cover the wounds with squares of gauze and tape everything down. “Bronson,” I say. “Guess what. You’re going to Maimonides.”

He grins as blood drips down his cheek from the head wound – this means he’ll see Rachel, the triage nurse he’s in love with at the Maimonides emergency room. This is the perfect way to impress her.

We all go into the woman’s house and drink iced tea until the ASPCA arrives. The cops are deflated. It’s not Annemarie Lucas; it’s two men with beer bellies and butterfly nets. I’m concerned they’re going to break up the bird families, but they reassure me, “We’ll take them, nests and all, to Prospect Park.”

I’m relieved. The birds are doing what comes naturally. They just happen to be doing it on a busy Brooklyn street corner.

Bronson couldn’t care less. “O frabjous day!” he cries, reaching for the ambulance keys and hopping into the driver’s seat, eager to get to the hospital.

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician for the FDNY. This column details her observations and experiences on the job. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.