Orphaned Birds, Grandkids, and the Need to Nurture

About a year ago I was walking Marco and Polo, our Italian Greyhounds, in the park near our house when they found something on the ground at the base of this big pine tree; a baby crow. She (don’t ask me why I knew it was female, but I knew it was female) had obviously been blown from the nest during some intense Santa Ana winds. She had pinfeathers just beginning to open and still had some down under her wings. Her little black beak had a yellow border. I contemplated trying to set her on a branch so maybe her Mother could grab her and take her back to the nest, but she was too weak to even stand on a branch. I couldn’t just leave her there.

I took her home and made a little cardboard box nest and fed her with an eyedropper. I think I called her Gabby, because she never shut up. She seemed to be doing fine, getting stronger and more demanding at each feeding when after about a week, she died, and then went to crow Heaven. Even after only one week, I was so invested in getting her through her childhood safely, I secretly wept in the garage; but just for a minute. I have a tendency to go to the garage if I feel a good cry coming on; not sure why. Maybe because I cry so rarely that it feels like I should do it with the stuff I rarely use. The next day I was glad I had taken some photos of her with her big mouth agape, waiting for the next worm.

Like déjà vu, this morning I was walking the hounds again when we noticed a small pigeon on the ground under the pine trees, near the fence that separates the park and playground from the school soccer field. Polo walked up to it and sniffed it and it didn’t fly away, just waddled off down the fence line. I pulled the leash back on the dogs so they weren’t tempted to play tug-o-war with him (Don’t ask me how I knew it was a him, I just knew). I was a little pre-occupied with the amazing, gloriously sunny, breezy, Southern California morning. Still, I noticed the little pigeon was a little short on tail feathers. Perhaps they had all been pulled out by a predator? Oh well, there were three little boys playing nearby. Surely they would come over and catch it and take it home or maybe toss it in the air to help it fly away.

The hounds and I strolled on into the open area of the park and with no other dogs in sight; I let Marco and Polo off the leash for a run. I am always impressed and amazed at how sleek they look, effortlessly bounding across open space; like little canine Olympic track stars, greased lightening, poetry in motion, all muscle and bone, born and bred to run like hell.

After about 10 minutes of chasing each other and marking all their favorite posts and tree trunks they rallied around me, as I lounged in the shade on a bench. All manner of kisses and licks were exchanged and then the leashes went back on and we headed back from whence we came.

As we crossed the open area back toward the pine trees I started looking for the little pigeon. I could see the same three little boys and other children were still near the playground but no one was holding the pigeon. When we got closer I spotted it; still there by the fence as if it hadn’t moved since we last left it. I wondered if the kids’ Moms had told them not to touch it because it might have a disease; “Pigeons are just rats with wings!” Don’t Moms always say that, and don’t all little boys and most little girls, try to pick them up anyway. When is the last time you saw a headline, “Children Touch Pigeon, Emergency Room Overrun”.

I never met a hog-nosed, or garter snake that I didn’t try to adopt. I caught my share of lizards, horned toads, and ground squirrels, too. Scared the bejeezus out of Fern Pittman one day when a itty-bitty hog-nosed snake slinked out of my shirt pocket while I was talking to her on her front porch. She jumped quite high for a short woman, and I think she peed a little.

So, back to our little pigeon, still sitting there not flying. As we approached it this time, I got closer and inspection revealed that it was no more than a large squab. It couldn’t fly because it was not yet developed and hadn’t experienced that incredible feat that we all have as a favorite dream. Don’t you just love it when in the middle of your dream you start to run down the street, with steps getting bigger and bigger, and then your feet leave the ground and you soar up above the landscape and sail off into the sky?

Our little pigeon, not being flight worthy, was easy to catch. I held him in one hand and the dogs' tandem leash in the other and walked home, wondering how I was going to make this little rat with wings live longer than a week. Why not leave it in the park and let nature take its course? Some predator would come along, or it would die of starvation and become fertilizer for the pine trees and the grass. Why do I put myself through this? Why, indeed. I’m not a veterinarian. I guess in this case maybe I was trying to be the avian version of a Good Samaritan. I don’t care if it’s just a pigeon and not a scarlet Macaw or a Malaccan Cockatoo, I needed to help it. I am just a huge sucker for an injured animal, even when it’s a human animal.

To me it seems like a natural instinct to adopt orphans, although I am pretty sure it’s not a natural instinct to everyone. When we got ready to start a family, adoption was the way we thought we could make it happen. We started off by getting a foster care license and were allowed to assist two teenage sisters, who became our daughters; their kids, our grandchildren. (A longish story, see "Love Makes A Family").

For now, let’s just say I am not the leave-it-for-nature-to-handle kind of guy when it comes to wounded or orphaned animals. I am the rescue and nurture type. So, I will soak, mash up, and dilute Grape Nuts cereal so it will pass through an eye dropper so I can feed that little rat with wings until I can set it free. If he thrives and flies away to a life filled with defecating on statues, then I will feel a great sense of accomplishment. Well, maybe not a great sense of accomplishment; but even just a little sense of accomplishment beats weeping secretly in the garage.

This sort of relates back to family and having grandkids for me since grandkids are like little baby birds in a way. When they were really little they used to believe I knew everything and could do no wrong. They felt that way because I told them that I knew everything and could do no wrong. It is so wonderful when they are toddlers because they believe whatever Grandpa says and they are totally dependant on you. They have depended on me, at times, to feed and shelter them, to patch them up and teach them. I have been there to drive them, carry them, wash and pack and deliver them. All this caretaking has a huge payoff if you are the rescue and nurture type. It has given me some of the biggest laughs and the most poignant moments of my adult life when my grand kids said things to me like, “Grandpa, you would make a really great Dad”, or “Grandpa, why don’t you run for World Leader”, or “Grandpa, the Beatles really are the best”, or simply, “Grandpa, I love you”. That last one can send me running to the garage faster than finding out another orphaned bird just died.