Leaving The Nest Too Soon

So I'm out at my parent's place yesterday, tending to my wolfhounds. I'm walking with the hose to refill the little swimming pool where they like to splash around and cool off, when I hear this alarmed squawk at my feet.

I look down to see that I've nearly stepped on this little baby bird. He's staring at me defiantly, all 2.5 ounces of him.
A baby bird that fell out of the nest

I bend over to look more closely.

I stand up and look around, and realize that I've been subconsciously hearing louder and more adult versions of the little guy's call as I was walking around the yard. As I look for his nest, I see Mom and Dad sitting on branches at opposite ends of the yard, talking to each other and him. I'm no birdwatcher, so I don't know what they were. I can see the beginnings of the adult coloration on the little guy. They are handsome grey birds with black and white bands on their wings, long straight tail feathers, graceful fliers, larks maybe?

Try as I might though, I do not see the nest, though I know it can't be far. I realize that I've probably got no way of getting him back up there anyway, but it doesn't hurt to look.

I bend back down to look at him. He doesn't move, but he doesn't seem to be hurt, either.

"Look you, do you realize what your life expectancy down here is? About 30 secs after Opa's barn cat hears your squawkin'. Plus, I'm fixin' to let my hounds out, they're gonna tear around this yard about Warp 9, and you'll be lucky if they don't step on you in the process."

I happened to have the AGFA in the car, as I had earlier that day been out shooting some real estate. (Commercial photography is one of the various ways I support myself - nothing fancy or artistic, just mundane stuff) So, I walk to go get it as I ponder what to do.

I've had enough experience with lost birds as a kid to know that the odds of me hand-raising this fella are pretty slim. Still, I'm thinking about it - some meal worms from the pet shop, crickets and nightcrawlers from the bait store, maybe it'll work. But I've got about two hours of work, at least, here before I can leave, putting the finishing touches on C&C's new domus.

I snap a few pics of him, then notice an empty hanging basket on the back porch. It's about four feet off the ground. A perfect place to stow him.

I bend over to grab him. He squawks louder that ever before and opens his mouth. It's huge, like his head splits in back at the base of his skull.

"Oh, be quiet, I'm not gonna eat you." I'm surprised that Mom and Dad, chattering up a storm, are not dive-bombing me. I set him in the bottom of the hanging basket, then go finish with the dogs.

To my surprise, the little guy has hopped up from the bottom of the basket, and is sitting on the rim, about a, umm eight inch leap. He's friskier than I thought. I wonder if Mom and Dad will tend to him from there.

But a few moments later, he's back on the ground, in the monkee grass underneath the basket.

I put him back in the basket, and wander off again to let the hounds out. They tear around the yard, as advertised, running out to the front to jump in the drainage ditch, where the water is chest deep on them, play fight, and chase each other, flinging contrails of water droplets and roostertails of turf and topsoil behind them at every turn.

Caesar, trying to get away from Cleo, hangs a sharp right around the corner of the house. The bird had jumped onto the ground again, and Caesar sees him, skidding to a stop. He lowers his long snoot...

At the same time the little guy jumps up, opens his mouth, spread his wings to their mighty four inch full extension and squawks louder than ever before. I don't know if it was me or the bird, but Caesar jumps about two feet backwards. I hurry over and put the guy back in the basket one more time.

This is one of those times when I'm tempted to not let the facts get in the way of a good story, and put a Happy Hollywood ending on this, but I've decided not to.

I call the dogs to come with me for a walk in the pasture. It turns into a long one, as they decide that they can't resist running out the back side of the ten acres chasing something, and then have to cool off in this small lake on the neighbor's property.

When we got back, a good thirty to forty-five minutes later, the little guy was gone. I don't think the cat got him, as it's half, make that 98%, wild, and doesn't come out in the day, especially when the dogs are out.

So, we not only don't get the Happy Ending, we don't even get the cathartic tale of sorrow. Not even the satisfaction of knowing the ending. Story interrruptus.

Maybe we get a moral from the story, though. Sometimes, we leave home a little bit too soon, and turn away, or spoil, all attempts to help us out of the situation we're in. Sometimes, even our parents are unable to help us, even though they'd like to.

In the early 80's, I worked as an instructor at one of the very first "boot camp" style programs in the nation. This one was for violent juvenile offenders, kids so mean and bad that they had been sentenced as adults, and were headed for the state prison in Florida, even though they were only fourteen to sixteen years old. The camp was located in Central Florida, just south of Sebring, in the swampy land around Fisheating Creek.

All of them had spent most of their lives in the custody of the state. Some of those kids were destined to spend the rest of their life incarcerated no matter what we did, but a few, maybe one in five, actually had a chance.

Sometimes I remember Slim, (sentenced for stealing a Miami PD squad car and driving it around the 'hood for four days during the '81 riots there) and Ernie (who I spent 24 straight hours running down through those swamps one time when he tried to run - I told those little fuckers that if they ran I'd be on their ass, so it was a matter of pride) and Romeo (charged with killing his dad with a shovel, as he didn't like seeing him beat his mother) and wonder what happened to them all.

Life isn't like the movies - sometimes the endings are unkown, and we don't get the clarity we seek.

Your bird dilemma:

I had the same problem when nestful of robins under the bottom corner of my deck, the floor of which sits six feet from the ground, decided to make their escapes. I kept picking them up and putting them back, and they'd end up on the ground again. Finally I gave up and let them alone.

My suspicion is that this is what they do on the day they learn to fly. I sure as hell hope so anyway, otherwise it makes no sense.

Kate

Paperghost, 6/23/02, 9:43 AM

Birds....

They do seem to have this odd suicidal streak in them. Maybe they need it to survive or something (although its more likely its just bad luck!)

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