The Inconsequential Consequences of Feeding Baby Birds

I've started to tune them out. Noisy little buggers, these baby birds. But oh so cute!

We've raised a few individual and a few clutches over the years. Hungry and demanding and often times too weak to carry on.

The first time we cared for a baby, it was before we even had babies of our own. Peter and I were living in Manhattan at the time. On a fishing excursion, he looked down and found a baby on the ground. He/she had no feathers for identification. And no mom to be found.

Sure. He should have just left him/her, but he didn't. He brought him/her home to me.

We hand-fed Lemonhead, which is the name we eventually would call "her". Seemed fitting as the spikey tubes would later unfurl into yellow and brown feathers easily identifying her as a Baltimore Oriole. But at first, her huge eyes, bald head, and skin-wrapped-cartiledge for wings made her too adorable to resist. And like the birds we have today, "she" needed constant feeding which we gave her. I believe, Peter even brought her to work to feed her during the day. I honestly don't remember, but I picture that happening.

Soon, Lemonhead was ready to fly. She would demonstrate by fluttering about in her box. That's when we transferred her to a cage and taught her not only to forage for food on her own, but perch on a makeshift branch. Regularly, we would open the cage and out she would fly. At first, quite wabbly, we were sure to catch her. Back then, she had plenty of room to fly, glide, soar and just as much room to come crashing into, down onto, or through for a landing.

One day, I let her out and she attacked me. She came straight for me, landed on my dress and proceeded to peck at me. I was frightened and a bit hurt. The scratches would heal but why would she not like me all of a sudden?

When Peter got home, I told him. We opened the cage and I showed him. She did it again and again.

Peter laughed. By now, we were pretty sure she was a Baltimore Oriole. As Peter explained it, she was doing what she does best. She was hunting for insects and sipping from flowers. I was confused until he pointed at my dress. Sure enough, it had huge brightly colored flowers and the baby bird was trying to feed herself.

Time to let her go, I guess. During the weekend, Fourth of July weekend as it so happened, we went back to where Peter had found her and set her free. She flew beautifully. A short time later, we went to the area again. Peter went there to fish, but I went to see if I could catch a glimpse of Lemonhead. No. Another time, Peter did go and saw an oriole. We'd like to think it was her and she was happy and healthy and at home along the river bank. We will never really know. But we'd like to think we helped in some small way.

The irony of that situation was that, while Peter was perfectly happy to care for a baby bird, turtle, snake, rabbit...whatever, but he didn't want children of his own. We were in marriage counseling when this came out. I was horrified. And even more so when a few months later, I would go to the doctor and find out I was pregnant.

Well, the day we released Lemonhead was the day I was far enough along to start telling family and friends. Symbolic and joyous. We looked forward to the future and a human baby to care for.

And wouldn't you know it? Our daughter, the one I was pregnant with at the time we raised and released an Oriole, wants to be a wildlife rehabilitator. Over the years, she's earned a reputation for herself. When there's a sick or hurt wild animal, her friends and our neighbors know just who to call.

So, while she's up at SUNY ESF's Cranberry Lake, taking summer field study courses for her major, she got a text. She texted me. "Do you want to take care of baby birds?" How do I say no? And here we are, with baby birds.

As per usual, one is large and healthy, the middle one is doing well, and then there is the runt of the clutch. This one has some feathers, but not many. "He" cannot seem to support himself on his legs. He doesn't stand because his legs are splayed out. One leg and wing even seemed broken. But he's hungry and so along with his brothers or sisters, we feed him. He lifts his head, eyes open and aware. He scrambles around the box, mostly to get away from the bigger siblings who peck at him and sit on him. Do the bigger birds truly try to kill the others so there is more food for them? I think this is pretty obvious.

We've had them for several days. I was thankful that we could help in our small way, particularly after finding the clutch of eggs that fell and broke behind the house. These guys seemed to be a way for us to make good.

Today, as I fed them, I noticed the little one kept falling asleep. This was not a good sign. As the other two clamored to get fed, the little one would lift his head but then put it back down. As his eyes closed for the last time, I watched as life left him. That's all I could do at this point. Just watch him die.

I know, I know. This is a baby bird who probably wouldn't have survived this long. I know. It's a baby bird with many to take his place in the world. I know, in the nest, the others would have probably killed him. I know. I had only known him for a few days. I know all of that. But I cried anyway. Not like I did when Chelsea my 9-year-old shadow-of-a-dog was hit by a car and killed. No. But I shed tears nonetheless.

Tiny, fragile, and maybe to some, inconsequential, a life is a life. I hope he knew we were rooting for him. We were hoping he'd defy the odds and survive. That we wanted to see him grow feathers, grow strong and fly. I hope his existence would have mattered in the world. I hope he knew he mattered to me.

I hope for every life, there is someone in this world who will acknowledge that existence and mourn for its loss. I hope. And today, like every other day, I hope for another chance to do what I can to make someone's life a little better. I live in hope. . .