Apparently I now have a new job: robin wrangler / baby (bird) sitter.
It started yesterday, when I was working from home and kept hearing loud chirps from the patio.
The babies are noisy today, I thought.
They're growing up, getting more active. A few hours later, I finally got a moment free to peek outside. A little "bird break" would be nice. Smiling, I pulled the curtain back.
Oh … NO! Was that a chick on the GROUND? Had it been the one making those loud chirps for HOURS now?
It wasn't chirping anymore. It was exhausted—breathing hard and lying prone, its chin on the ground. It might be injured, too. It had only some early feathers on its wings, with down underneath, and it was nowhere near ready to take off on its own.
I worried that my presence would be terrifying, adding fear on top of pain. But the chick didn't move as I came near. It didn't even look up as I pulled a potted plant closer to help block the sun. The temperature was in the 90s and climbing. It was predicted to be the hottest day of the year so far.
My God, I thought, horrified,
I'm too late!
No, not yet. Can't give up yet. I ran to the computer for help. The websites said to put nestlings back in the nest if possible. They said that the old warning about mother birds rejecting chicks that had been touched by humans was a myth. The problem was that I couldn't reach the nest. Also, at that point, I didn't think the chick would survive without some extra help.
But who could give us extra help? Who would even want to bother? It was just a robin, after all, not an eagle or something. Robins are everywhere. Less than 25% make it through their first year. Who would care about this ONE?
But I called a bird rehab place, and the woman there was wonderful, kind and calm. Birds twittered softly in the background as she talked me through some steps: "First, you'll want to get him off the ground. See if you can put him in some kind of basket and hang it up near the nest. That way he'll be safe from predators, and the parents will be more likely to feed him. He's dehydrated by now. Do you have any fruit, like blueberries or strawberries? Cut it into little pieces and mix in a few drops of water..."
I ran around, found a basket, and nestled him into it. Oh how fragile he was … and yes, I was thinking of this chick as "him" by now. I tied the basket to a nail that was six feet up the post. That was as close as I could get him to the nest without hanging him right in the sunlight. Then I hurried to a nearby store for berries.
By the time I got back, he was barely breathing. He did not want to eat. As I touched his beak with the spoon, he just closed his eyes and cringed. His body language pleaded
Let me die in peace. And maybe that would be the kindest thing to do.
It was a logical idea. I was able to have logical ideas ... but let me tell you, my cheeks were hot with tears of outrage and grief, for the chick whose life was now in my unsteady hands, for my own baby's life that ended even before birth, for all the pain we share.
If this bird dies like this, I thought,
I quit. I resign. I am DONE. (Whatever that means.)
But not yet. I called the lovely bird lady again, afraid that she would say it was hopeless now—we tried, but not all babies survive, and it's time to move on. She didn't say that. Calmly, kindly, she said, "You may still be able to pull him out of it. Squeeze the bottom of his beak…"
I did what she suggested, opening his beak with my hands. At first I tried to keep him in his basket, not wanting to hold him, trying not to disturb him any more than necessary or (I admit) get any more attached than I already was. But he tumbled into my lap. His weight and warmth were a shock. Cradling him in my palms, I took in every detail of this little life—the squishy feel of his belly where there were no feathers yet, the skin almost translucent. His tiny feet, tucked close. The beating of his heart. His dark eyes staring into mine.
I held him in shaking hands. I was shaking everywhere, my legs jittering up and down like they've done only one other time in my life, right after a car accident. I prayed,
Please, let me help, not hurt. Finally, his beak opened enough for me to get some blueberries down. I managed just a few drops, then nestled him back into his basket.
Then I sat, in shock, in a chair. He sat, in shock, in his basket. We rested. Five minutes passed.
Somewhere a bird was chirping. I looked up, and a huge smile spread across my face. He was chirping! Softly first, then louder, more insistent. He was alive. Not only that, but he WANTED to live!
I know, I know. It was just a bird. And I just gave him some food. But it felt like I'd given someone CPR and watched him come back to life. It felt miraculous.
I wish I could say that the story ended there, happily ever after. In fact, it took three more spoon feedings, a stepladder rental, and a whole afternoon off from work before that poor chick was returned home to his nest. It was quite a day.
Even that was not the end. I woke up this morning to more chirping and another chick (or maybe the same one) on the ground again. This time I knew better what to do. I looked at him—a forlorn little lump of fluff in my ivy—and said, "Sweetie, we've got to stop meeting this way!"
Then I took everything off my desk. (Why not? It's not like I'm getting any work done.) I dragged that heavy desk outside, put a step stool on top of it, and built the chicks a safety net out of fabric scraps and thumbtacks. I had to adjust it until it was acceptable to Mom and Dad. And I put an old egg-crate mattress down on the desk and the ground, just in case. My entire patio is now a giant robin's nest.
The last time I peeked out, there were still three chicks up there, begging and jostling each other for food. It looks like my work is done … for today. I hope everyone stays safe tomorrow.
