An Orphan of the Storm

We've had lots of riotous thunderstorms in the past week or two. And Sunday night into Monday was no exception. We had some real gully-washers.

On Monday, I looked out a window first thing in the morning and saw a tiny dark shape huddled on the drive way. Thinking it was either a baby bunny or a very small bird, I went out with my camera to check it out.

I approached quietly, cautiously. What I found was a small bird, bedraggled and wet. It was sitting there on the drive way pavement, breathing heavily in the morning sun. I could get very close to it and it didn't try to move away.

First I observed the bird, and I looked all around for a mother bird or a nest. I found neither. I didn't observe any harm to the bird; it mostly looked just wet.

I went back inside for a while, occasionally checking on the little creature. No change. It didn't move away. No other bird came to help it.

Eventually my husband and I packed up our gear to go for a morning swim at a local park. "Are you going to just leave that bird in the drive way?" he asked. (I own the acre; I guess that makes it my bird, as much as it is anybody's bird except our heavenly father's.)

I thought two things: one, that the poor little thing would be helpless prey to any of the neighbor cats who occasionally hunt in our yard; and two, that the baking heat of the sun would be too much for it on the pavement. I wanted to give the mother a bit of time, and a chance to come back for the baby, but it just couldn't safely stay where it was.

So I put on a pair of gardening gloves (that I hoped smelled more like grass clippings than Human Beings), and I decided to move the bird to higher ground.

In walking around the hedge near where I found the bird, I did hear some chirping; however, I didn't see a nest, but that didn't mean there wasn't one hidden there.

Thinking that perhaps there was a nest nearby, and that the little one would be safer up higher (away from the prowling cats) and more comfortable in the shady reaches of the hedge, I decided to move the bird into the hedge near the chirping sounds.

As I picked up the baby bird, it settled into my hand with a small sigh of relief and comfort, which broke my heart: as if it knew that Everything Would Be All Right Now that Help Had Come. It opened its beak as though it thought I might feed it, but alas I had no snacks to offer it.

I lifted the bird into the bush and left it in a quiet, shady nook. It seemed to settle in comfortably.

As my husband and I got into the car and prepared to leave, I saw an adult robin walking around the front of the hedge in a manner that seemed purposefully nonchalant. Might she be the mother? Was she waiting for us to leave?

After finding the bird, I had placed a photo of it online and a birding friend quickly identified the bird as a baby robin, probably dropped out of its nest as a casualty of the storm, but with well developed wings and close to the age at which it would have left its nest to hunt on its own anyway.

My friend told me that should the mother not come back for it (and he assured me that robins are good mothers), I could feed the baby bird either wet cat food and/or mealworms.

I thought about the baby bird constantly while we were away. And my husband and I discussed the technicalities, such as: what flavor of cat food would a baby bird eat? Chicken or turkey seemed too strangely cannibalistic, beef too weird. I finally decided that the grilled tuna that my cat loves best would be the best choice for the baby. Birds eat tiny fish, right? So tuna it would be.

Remembering its open-mouth reflex when I picked it up, I had no doubt the bird would feed from my hand. I envisioned a bird rescue, a few days of keeping the bird in a quiet box, the happy release of the healthy bird, regular joyous reunions around the yard: a bird whose mother I might even (sort of) be. The kind of story you see on those nature shows, complete with a happy ending.

The thought tickled me, made me smile: maybe this little robin and I would share a special bond. Maybe it would even come to me when it saw me in the yard?

When we got home, a few hours later, I looked all around the bush and the ground nearby, but I didn't find the baby bird.

Dear tender-hearted readers, I admit that I have wondered if I did the right thing. Should I have done more? Less? Did the baby bird perish in the bush? Did it live?

I have looked for the little bird every day since then, several times a day, hoping to discover its fate, prepared to intervene if necessary. I have regularly seen mother robins moving through the yard, laden down with snacks for their young, and I hope that one of them is his mother, that some of those snacks are for him (or her).

Life in the country can be . . . puzzling and even disturbing sometimes. Nature (or fate, call it what you will) sometimes brings creatures to your door in need of help. Some of the cases are pretty hopeless ones. And even if you render aid, you don't always get to know how the story ended. (Remember the butterfly story?)

I am not sure my tender heart is up to it. I have done my best to determine if help is needed; to try to render aid; pondered their fate; secretly cried. There is no guarantee of happy endings, but wouldn't it be nice if this little guy got one?

Go well, little bird. I'll hope to see you again one day in the yard; and if we do, I hope we recognize each other. The baby bird, bedraggled from the storm. And the girl with a camera . . . and a tender heart.

Did you get a happy ending, baby bird? I admit I gave you one, in my heart.

P.S. I did some online searching, and found this resource which talks about what to do if you find a baby bird fallen out of its nest. I share it in case you, dear reader, should one day find yourself in possession of an orphaned bird, and thus in need of knowing what to do . . .