Nature can be a beautiful, fragile and wonderful thing, and sometimes it can be brutal and ruthless. We humans navigate our world, mostly with bulldozers and cement, but somehow we fail to completely annihilate the natural world. I don't know if we all possess a moral compass when it comes to caring about the creatures we so easily displace as we build our houses and roads and schools and businesses. I suppose this is as variable, beautiful, fragile, brutal and ruthless as nature itself.We found the baby bird just before Memorial Day. There she lay on the grass just before dusk, looking somewhat stunned as ants crawled purposefully across her body. Her blood feathers were sticking out, covering her back and wings, and leaving stubbly gray bald patches here and there. Herbert said "Leave her. That's nature. Let nature do its thing," but I couldn't stand the idea of the ants darting across her body, taking small bites until they had taken her last breath. Obligation. I was obligated now, thanks to my nagging conscience. But what do you do with a baby bird? I looked for her nest (she was situated next to a large tree), but I could find no trace of it. I didn't want to touch her. She looked sick and something ingrained in me feared contamination. But the ant situation was bothering me. I ran into the house and searched the closets for a shoe box, found one, and filled it with tissue paper. I ran back to my new charge and placed her gingerly in the box. I had no hope of her surviving, but at least she wouldn't be eaten alive.
It's particularly handy when one finds oneself in such a predicament, to have a father who not only loves animals, but is also a veterinarian. So I called my father (panicked), hoping he would be able to tell me what to do with this little bird. We speculated about the type of bird I had found (I was clueless and took a photo and emailed it to him). The good father/doctor then told me to keep her safe and warm, and to make sure she got some nourishment. He recommended catching a spider and giving it to her. Now I'm not a squeamish kind of girl, but the idea of catching a spider and feeding it to this sick looking baby bird I didn't even want to touch was kind of freaking me out. But I was obligated, you see. And so I dutifully took the flashlight out to the yard, pushed up some leaves around one of the bushes, and immediately a group of angry looking arachnids scurried out. Armed with tissue, I grabbed one, and apologized to it before half crushing the life out of it. In the food chain, bird trumps spider. And human definitely trumps spider. Triumphantly, I ran back to the shoe box and presented the bird with the spider. She wasn't interested in the offering. After watching untold hours of Discovery Channel and Animal Planet, I fully expected this creature to open her mouth and let me shove food in there. But she didn't do that. She just looked warily at me, the big featherless bird that had placed her in an alien-smelling shoe box and offered her a spider in an apparently unacceptable way.
That night, I put the shoe box in an animal-free zone in the house (with three dogs and a cat I was worried that our home might be every bit as dangerous as the great wide open). Though I was obligated at this point, I was not emotionally invested, so the next morning when I went to check the box, I was somewhat resigned to the fact that the little creature wouldn't have made it through the night. I was wrong. There she was peeping up at me with a look that said "feed me." I called my father again and he told me I'd probably have to hold her beak open to get the nourishment (spider) in, and that she might also be weak and dehydrated. I would have to get over my aversion and handle the creature. I placed her on the back porch (in her box) and grabbed a piece of watermelon from the fridge, and then rustled up another spider (I was getting good at this). I gingerly held the bird's head with one hand, and tried to open her beak with my thumb and index finger while pushing crushed bits of watermelon into her mouth. She eagerly gulped at the melon and seemed to want more. I was delighted. I gave her more melon, and shoved the half dead spider in for good measure. At least she was getting some fluid and nourishment now. I was beginning to feel optimistic. My father had also suggested getting some baby cereal and creating a kind of formula for the bird, so off I went to the grocery store, where I procured some pear and mango and rice baby food, baby cereal and an eye dropper. When I tried to feed her with the eye dropper, the little bird perked up and immediately demanded more and more and more. Obligation was turning into involvement now. there was no turning back. I dubbed my little foundling Clarice, and resolved to nurse this creature back to health until she was strong enough to be rehabilitated into the wild.
After a few days, Herbert (the "leave it to nature" spouse), became every bit as interested as I was to check Clarice's progress, watch her at feeding time, coo at her and nestle her in his hand. We now had an adopted baby, and we doted on this creature as if she were our very own child. It soon became apparent to me that the shoe box would not do for a long stint. It was dark in there, and she couldn't see us or her surroundings. So off I went to Petco, where I selected a parakeet cage, and while there also picked up a huge bag of seed for when Clarice could be weaned off of formula.
As the days passed, Clarice became stronger and stronger and more and more alert. She flapped her wings excitedly whenever we approached, and became quite demanding when it was time to be fed. She enjoyed being cuddled, and it was obvious that we had all bonded in a big way. This strengthening of body and confidence continued for nearly six weeks. We had learned that Clarice was a Mourning Dove, and that these sweet birds can live up to 30 years with good care and in the absence of predators. We began to introduce her, slowly, to the world outside of her cage for longer periods. The patio became her playground, and as she had been weaned off of formula, she eagerly pecked at the premium finch seed we provided her with, made use of the little water dish we gave her, and generally flourished under our care. Soon she was stretching her wings, making little excursions up to the top of the roof and the patio umbrella - but would never stay up there for very long. Then one day she disappeared all day. I was sad about this, but assumed that she had taken her leave of us. But then the next morning there she was, fluttering her wings, running toward me, demanding a scratch behind the neck and a new supply of finch seed. I was pleased that she was able to navigate, explore, and find her way back home. She seemed to be on the road to independence, but still checked in every few hours to let us kow all was well.
After a while she began to hang out in a tree on the edge of the patio. I could sit there and watch her, and she could watch me and the skies. When I put her back in her cage for the night she was very unhappy, and fluttered around until she was exhausted. She lost some feathers and it was clear that this wild creature had outgrown her temporary man-made home. With some reservations, I let her stay in her tree the following night. I checked on her frequently, but she seemed to be up high and away from cats and foxes (my primary concern), always looking around vigilantly. This continued for a couple of weeks: she would perch on the tree at night, and go off exploring during the day, coming home intermittently to eat and drink and interact with her humans. It was kind of a nerve-wrecking situation: on the one hand, she was a wild thing and needed to be in her element; on the other hand, she had been hand-raised in captivity and was perhaps not equipped to deal with the dangers of the wild. But I let go of reservations, reasoning that our patio was a predator-free sanctuary for Clarice. One night I realized how naive this idea was. Clarice was up in her tree, and I was on the patio. Suddenly a peregrine falcon dive-bombed the tree, chasing Clarice in hot pursuit of a meal. Falcons are bird-eating raptors, and can travel (in a stoop) in excess of 200 mph. I watched helplessly as the falcon darted after our baby bird and out of sight. I was devastated. This little bird was no match for a peregrine falcon. i imagined all kinds of gruesome scenarios that involved, ultimately, Clarice ending up as the falcon's dinner. I went to bed that night with a heavy heart, much guilt and sadness. How had the falcon seen her in the dense tree? Why would he attack her right in front of humans? Why didn't I make her go into her cage for the night? Had it been quick? She trusted us to protect her. Self-recrimination continued until I finally fell asleep.
The next morning I was having my coffee on the patio when suddenly I heard the familiar call of our dove. Clarice had survived a brush with a peregrine falcon. I don't know how she did it. She must have made it into a thick tree and kept low until the blood-thirsty falcon had finally given up. She was overjoyed to be back, flapping her wings excitedly, and chirping incessantly. I kept her up on the porch, and she was content to be by my side all day after such a harrowing experience the previous evening. After the incident with the falcon, Clarice became more jittery than usual. She constantly watched the skies for threats, and stayed away from open areas. I was happy about her new-found vigilance. If one good thing had come of this brush with death, it was that she would be wary of threats and predators in the future. I felt a great deal more confident about her transition to the outdoors, but also more protective of her. We had a calculating falcon in our midst, preying on our baby. That was unacceptable. I placed Clarice in her cage that evening and she wasn't pleased. She flapped frantically, losing tail and wing feathers, chirping feverishly. She must have felt helpless to escape another threat should it come up. I felt rotten and resolved to build or buy a bigger shelter for her. the next day I let her out of her cage, and off she went with the bird-equivalent of a scowl and a defiant look. I hoped that her confinement hadn't pushed her over the edge and into the great wild world. I would have to wait and see.
She returned for brief stints, wary, staying near the patio furniture, and with an eye on the sky. She was always pleased to see me and would chirp excitedly. If I stayed on the patio, she would nestle down and have a sunbath, but the moment I went inside, she disappeared. She had now been conditioned, thanks to that devil falcon. I was still worried about her at dusk (which is when the attack had taken place) and wanted to bring her inside for the night, but she copped onto this plan, and disappeared well before dusk. I think she must have felt that she had a better hiding place, and one that would allow an escape route if things got dire. This new arrangement - Clarice popping off before dusk and returning in the morning - lasted for a few days. Until yesterday. Last night she visited, and then flew up into the patio tree where the attack had taken place a few days earlier. I sipped my soda and we sat in companionable silence for a while. Then I made a very big mistake. I assumed all was well and stepped inside for a moment to check on dinner. i was gone perhaps two minutes to stir what was on the stove, and then I cam back Clarice was gone. Really gone. She was no longer on her branch, that's what I noticed first. But the next thing I noticed was far more chilling: feathers everywhere. On the ground, and then leading up the steps and onto the porch. The falcon had returned, and the evidence told me that Clarice had made a last ditch effort to escape onto the porch, where her humans lived, and where they might save her. But they weren't there at that crucial moment. the skirmish must have been very fast and furious. The falcon must have been watching for me to leave so she could make her move. I heard nothing of it on the other side of the screen door. So many feathers make it impossible to be optimistic. i hope she got away. I hope it was simply another close call and the falcon ended up with a few feathers in her beak and nothing else. But the odds are against little Clarice. Escaping that cold and calculating falcon once was a near miracle, twice would be a near impossibility.
Needless to say, the self-recriminations, the sadness and the realization that nature is beautiful, fragile, brutal and ruthless remain with me today. That little bird gave us such joy, and I hope we gave her a feeling of love and belonging for her short time on earth.
