One More Bird

Coming home from church one night and finding Robby with a new can of wild game dog food, I knew we were in for another foster baby bird.  Our neighbors, Dakota and Rebekah, had rescued a tiny dark scrap of a thing and brought it to us to protect it from a house full of dogs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was hard to tell what it would grow up to be, but we hoped we could ensure that it at least grew up and had a little life.  Robin? Blackbird? Finally, the staff at the VLM identified it as a catbird.  It had a very cute way of scooting its little tail end up out of its resting place when it needed to poop, keeping itself fastidiously clean.

It immediately took to its new home and opened wide for its bird rations.  And there we were, back on a newborn regimen of feeding a baby every half hour or so.  And once again, when I went out of town, baby bird had to go to work with Robby on the weekend.  Luckily, the VLM was an excellent place to take a baby bird, and she thrived.

I was concerned about combining a rowdy Grandma week with the delicate care of an infant bird, but I needn’t have worried.  The little thing accepted the enthusiastic attentions of Everett and John—and later Isaac, Asher, and Noah– with perfect equanimity. But it was about then that we decided to speak of this bird as a girl—after all, with five boys in the house, I needed female company, even if imagined.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She liked to fly about the house exploring.  A favorite perch was between Robby’s red racing boots.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She was eager to go with us on our morning coffee walks as well, content to sit on Robby’s arm the whole way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One morning we were enchanted to see her join Isaac’s array of stuffed birds where he had lined them up on the counter top.  No one placed her there—it was all her own idea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She seemed to think a bucket of zinnias from Lisa’s garden was pretty special, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As she became more adventurous and was allowed outside on the beauty berry bush to hunt ants, she would flap against the window to get our attention when ants weren’t enough. On one of those days, she followed somebody in the back door unbeknownst to them, and injured her leg.

Robby took her to a vet recommended by the VLM as capable of bird doctoring, but was turned away at the reception desk.  Closed to little birds.  That left it up to us, however squeamish we felt. We took a crash course on splinting a songbird leg with masking tape as found on the internet.  It took Robby and me, and our daughter-in-law Michelle with her delicate piano-playing fingers, to accomplish the task.

She survived our intervention and looked pretty in her blue petticoats.  I’m sure the people in the rest areas along the way to Rockville, Maryland last Tuesday noticed how stylish she was dressed for the journey as we stopped to feed her at every one. She was a great traveler, and didn’t mind doing a return trip the same night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Having a bird chirping in the back seat on a trip gave me an intense feeling of déjà vu.  Seems like something not only my husband, but my mother in years past, would have done, and did. Last year a baby mockingbird rode in the 1960 190SL Mercedes roadster to the Outer Banks and back, getting treats popped into his mouth whenever he squawked.

The little catbird is still on its journey towards maturity.  A few days ago, still squeamish, we successfully removed her splint. She is gobbling meal worms, gaining strength in the leg, and growing in independence every day, though still tiny and willing to be cuddled.  Her favorite place is the top of Robby’s head.

Yesterday I almost jumped out of my skin.  The catbird was eating meal worms and apparently noticed that the last one was not moving. A loud harsh cry sounded, one I had never heard before.  “Don’t give me dead meal worms! Gross!  Get that thing out of here!” was no doubt the translation.

Yesterday I was rolling pie crust at the kitchen counter when I turned, and something unusual caught my eye.  Two women were laughing and walking from the direction of the garage on down the driveway toward the street. Why were these Jehovah’s Witness missionaries walking away without ringing the doorbell?

Apparently they had read the note taped to the back door: “Please enter by the garage door, for my personal safety.  Thank you.” It was signed, “Catbird,” and illustrated with a perky bird drawing.

Maybe they thought a home where catbirds posted notes on the door was beyond the scope of their mission.  On the other hand, they could have taken exception to the squirming dish of meal worms on the porch railing—just one of the domestic hazards when you undertake the rehabilitation of a wild baby bird.