Reason 33 Why My Parents Possibly Think I’m “Special”…

The phone conversation began normal, “Hey sweetie, how are you doing?”, but that’s where normal ended..

“Uh, hey dad.. I’m.. There’s a bird, he hit the window and now he’s on the back step kind of laying on his stomach with his head back and he’s breathing really heavy and I don’t want him to die. One of his claws.. feet, things is kind of sticking up weird.. I can’t tell if he’s broken. I heard a bang, and there was this hawk..and then I saw this blackbird laying here.. I think he might be dying. What do I do? I can’t just leave him there. The hawk might get him. And I don’t want him to die on my back step. He’s a special blackbird. He’s a cowbird. They have a really pretty call. And there’s a storm coming. I don’t want to leave him. Dad, what do I do?”

It was the squirrel caught in bird-feeder scenario all over again..

So what really happened? I was at the stove cooking dinner, (yes, heating a can of Campbell’s soup and baking a frozen pizza does constitute as cooking, albeit lazily) when I heard something smack the door wall. It was loud and startled me. My first thought was someone threw something at the glass. I went to investigate, and the first thing I saw was a very large bird perched on the railing that borders my patio. A hawk.

Just a few minutes before I had been watching a whole flock of sparrows dinning on the seeds I put out for the neighborhood critters. Birds and squirrels alike had scattered.. and there was this hawk. It took off and I watched it diving after some of the other small birds that were fleeing the scene. It quickly flew out of sight and I looked down to see the blackbird. He was one of the recent additions to the neighborhood. I had identified him a few days ago in the old Audubon bird field guide that had once belonged to my grandmother. The males of this species are a glossy black, with a brown head and a beautiful call. Oddly enough they’re called the Brown-headed Cowbird.

He looked so helpless. His little chest was throbbing with quick breaths and his head was thrown back at a strange angle, almost in exultation; perhaps he had just seen the divine. Maybe he had, when he whacked into the glass. What do birds see circling their heads when they get a good noggin’ knocking? I thought he was surely going to die. It wouldn’t be the first time I witnessed an innocent bird’s demise. Like before, I wanted to do whatever I could to help. The wind was picking up and the dark clouds on the horizon meant a storm was blowing in. The bird’s situation tugged a nice little pizzicato on my bleeding heartstrings.

So I called my parents. I was glad it was my dad who picked up this time. Dads are supposed to know about these things. I was sure the boy scouts had a badge for this. “It’s just stunned,” he assured me. His advice, after I insisted I couldn’t just leave the bird there, was to “sneak up on it from behind. Make sure you’ve got protection on your hands. You don’t want him pecking at you. Pick it up carefully and put it under a tree or bush. Somewhere under cover. And wash your hands really good after.”

I was already donning my thick canvas gardening gloves when I hung up the phone. I tried to be quiet as I approached the helpless bird from behind, but I’m a human and lack the silent grace of a predator. It took a few tries to get the bird securely, but gently cradled in my hands. He kept hoping away, fluttering a few inches off the ground, but never getting very far or high. At least his wings seemed to function. “I’m just going to put you under a tree,” I said quietly, exasperated with my own incompetence. Finally he was still long enough for me to cup him between my palms. He weighed almost nothing and seemed so fragile that I was afraid of crushing him with my grip. I gingerly set him down under a nearby spruce, and spread some seeds on the ground beside him.

After I went back inside the house and washed my hands thoroughly, I called Dad back to let him know the operation was a success. “I just hope there’s no internal bleeding,” I fretted.

“You’re not taking a bird to the vet.” Definitely not a question.

We chatted for a few more minutes, all the while I kept on eye on the little invalid still sitting where I had placed him, safe beneath the evergreen’s low boughs. Just as we were saying our goodbyes, the bird suddenly skipped further under the tree and then disappeared. I saw a higher branch shiver. “Looks like the patient is going to pull through! It was touch and go for a minute there, but I think he’ll be fine.” Pleased with myself, I went back to stirring my pea soup, which had scalded to the bottom of the pan. I then managed to splatter some on my sleeve.. and shoulder. This was OK though. I looked out the door-wall, and noticed a couple of downy feathers stuck to the glass. The point of impact. Outside, the wind had calmed and the sky was turning a kinder blue, the clouds a wispier white. The storm had passed.