Could there be hope?
I have been cautiously opening my screen door in the morning. Often, I am faced with another victim of my nocturnal cat, Charlie.
It shouldn’t surprise anyone really. After all, there has been a plethora of chipmunks this year along with the usual moles. At night, my backyard is like a shooting gallery at a midway with Charlie hoping to bring home a “stuffed” animal in the morning.
So, there it was, lying on his back, head bent, legs in the air but breath still rising from his white belly. He was at my doorstep and he was a baby bird, a fledgling probably learning to fly for the first time when attacked by Charlie. I can take a mole or a chipmunk, sometimes both, but a bird? No. Not a bird. My heart sank and I truly hated Charlie.
I could tell by its beak, coloring, and tail that he was a nuthatch. He wasn’t moving but he wasn’t dead yet. Should I watch him die a slow death? Should I just toss him into the woods and hope for the best or should I do something? Hope feels so foreign to me right now.
I called John to the door. He bent down agreeing he too could see the bird was still breathing. We looked at each other, read each other’s mind, and got to work.
We got a little storage container with a lid. I put a washcloth down and John got a little dish and filled it with water. We gently put him in, me adding some twigs hoping they would remind him of his nest.
He lifted his head and turned to look at us as we brought him in to a quiet room in the house and shut the door. Hope.
Before going to bed that night we both went and checked in on him and gasped. He was alive! His little head was tucked safely under his wing and he was sleeping.
The next day he was hopping around in the container trying to flap his wings. Perhaps sleep and time to heal was all that was needed to send him back to where he belonged. We carefully took him out of the container and placed him on the deck of the porch. He fluttered his wings, but they couldn’t lift him. He looked around, chirped his song, and kept trying his wings. Suddenly, he stumbled off the foot-high deck and hobbled underneath it.
That was it. There was no way of reaching him. I went back inside to make sure the cat was locked in. Maybe the little guy might be able to hop out into the woods, maybe gain his strength and fly. Keeping my serial predator away was a start.
When I returned, I looked as far under the deck that I could, but I didn’t see him. I tried looking from all four sides and nothing. Disappointed, I got off my knees and began walking up the steps when I heard his cry. I looked again under the deck and he was smack in the middle up against the wall, blending in. He chirped about eight times in a row and then stopped. Sadly, he was so far under the deck I knew I would never be able to reach him.
I listened carefully to his song, counting the chirps, listening for their repeats and pitch. Lying on my stomach with my head fully under the deck I started to chirp back. I waited. He looked in my direction. Softly I was cheering him on, like a new mother getting an infant to crawl for the first time. He sang out again. I chirped again. Suddenly, he started taking steps toward me. He chirped. I chirped and he got closer.
John had been inside when my experimental chirping began. He had been calling Fish and Game to see where we might bring an injured animal. They referred us to a place in Henniker, a 20-plus minute ride from our house.
John started out the door and froze. With a worried look and concern in his voice, he asked what the heck I was doing. I explained how the nuthatch and I were communicating back and forth. He rolled his eyes not accepting my explanation until he heard it himself. The nuthatch kept making progress toward me.
In no time the nuthatch was within inches of rescue, and John was able to lean down and pick him up.
When we reached Wings of the Dawn Wildlife Rehabilitation Center, the woman came and gently lifted the nuthatch, covering it with a cloth. She said she had to act fast and told me to fill out paperwork while she went in to start treatment.
When she returned, I was curious as to what treatment she was talking about. She explained that she was giving the bird antibiotics to attack the “for certain” poison in its system from the cat. Apparently, cats have poison in their saliva and when they attack a bird, the poison goes right into their blood stream and within 24 hours the birds die.
I reminded her that the nuthatch had already survived the first 24 hours, but she wasn’t counting hours but rather years of experience.
She told me I could call and check up on the bird that evening but not to have my hopes up.
At 7 p.m., I called. He was still alive! I asked if he was out of the woods and she said not yet. She happily said if I wanted to, I could call her again in a day. Again, she reminded me that most birds don’t make it out alive after an encounter with a cat.
I thought of my little guy all day long. I was sad for all he had been through. There was something about this little bird that touched my heart. Late that afternoon I looked out at my bird feeder and there were several nuthatches diving in for seed. Did they notice one missing?
My little nuthatch survived one night in our house, the second night at the center and now it was the third night and I just had to know if he made it. I made the call. I explained I was the lady with the nuthatch and while I didn’t want to be a bother, I just wanted to call one last time to check on him. Hope.
“Well,” she said. “I don’t know how to explain it but he’s still alive!”
I felt so much joy in my heart. A sweet little songbird with a second chance. I never called back. I wanted him to live his life to the fullest. I put him in my heart where he will live forever.
I wonder if birds return to the place of their nest. Hope.
(Lisa Brown lives in Concord.)
No comments:
Post a Comment