Sparrow - A Human's Perception of Saving a Baby Bird
Yesterday I saved a baby bird’s life. Well, for a bit. I definitely saved it from dying there and then.
I was in the kitchen preparing breakfast and it was sunny outside. As I buttered my toast I heard a rustle behind me, I turned to see my pest of a cat Oreo under the kitchen table toying with something fluffy. At first my mind screamed mouse, and a dead one at that, until on further inspection I realised it was a tiny baby bird - and it was still alive.
Batting Oreo away from pawing at the frightened, defenceless creature, I picked up the weightless chick and it was petrified. I paced to the kitchen door and called for my mother who is not a morning person and was enjoying her breakfast. My mother’s annoyance at being disturbed was diluted when she saw what was in my hands.
We stepped into the garden to evaluate our options all the while hearing the solemn tweets of the mother’s beckoning. The shocked chick stayed still and quiet. I opened my hand for the bird to attempt flight but it clumsily fell to the ground. My mother fetched our cat’s carry box from the shed which we filled with grass and placed two bottle caps (to act as saucers), one filled with water and bread, another with milk and bread, and then the poor little baby bird inside.
Having second thoughts on the birds diet, we agreed that it needed regurgitated meat. In an effort to replicate, I lifted a log and and pulled a thin worm from the earth. Mum looked away as I stamped repeatedly on the bug, turning it to mush. I placed the worm, as sticky as a bogey into the cage with the baby bird and placed the cage in the shed in hopes the bird will regain strength and confidence and begin flapping around.
A few hours passed and we decided to check up on our feathered friend. Oreo was locked inside the house, to keep the sparrow away from any danger but upon inspection the baby bird had gone. How did he escape? The bars must have been too wide and then we heard the scurrying of little feet on the floor of the shed. Trying to catch any small animal is a task, especially in a shed which soon had to be emptied, but eventually the bird was back in my palms.
As the cage idea wasn’t going to work, we had very little options. The bird seemed to have regained a lot more confidence, yet still no flight, when I released my grip he plummeted to the floor and scurried off behind a box in the garden. There was not much more we could do other than let nature take its course. After 30 minutes the signet was gone and we hope that he had learnt how to fly. Oreo, Luca (next doors cat) and Clause (next door along) are let out at night. Clause’s garden is home to the tree where the nest is homed therefore, it will be a perilous journey for any flightless bird with three tomcats on the prowl.
Ourselves or a neighbour may wake up in the morning to find a gift on our doorsteps, hand delivered by one of our friendly felines.
The next morning, I am woken by my mother to her calling my name and mentioning some kind of bird. I am half asleep and confused about why she is calling up the stairs about some bird. Apparently, it’s back in the garden, now in a cardboard box with holes punched through. Mum found the bird by the shed, still and petrified, it must have been hopping around all night unable to get home. How exhausted must it be, as well as hungry and terrified. The bird’s mother was on the rescue mission, jumping from fence panel to fence panel calling for its young, which the baby heartbreakingly tweeted back. A couple of large sparrows, presumably the males, flocked to the fence and spectated. We let the baby bird stumble out of the box onto the grass. Oreo was locked inside, glued against the window eyeing up what was once his prey and pawing the glass to get at it. Luca was out though and possibly Clause, we had to be as vigilant as the mother bird. The baby bird just hopped around, limp and weak and the mother bird with all the chirping in the world could not get her baby to fly up to her on to the fence, it did not have the strength. The male birds flew away, unimpressed with the baby birds efforts and letting survival of the fittest take reign over nature once again.
I collected the baby bird and placed him back in the box. I found another worm and smashed it up with my shoe. The baby must have been hungry as it tilted its head back and let me drop the worm down its throat. At least that has bought it some time and may help get its strength back. It is now in the box and back in the shed, resting hopefully, regaining strength. Next time I check I hope it’s flapping because the mother bird has given up, back in the tree, and no longer chirping for her baby’s response.
It's lunch time and the garden is quiet. The mother’s chirp has ceased and the baby’s cries have dulled and vanished. I’ve been typing away, and my stomach rumbles, it’s that time of day again. 24 hours since the baby bird entered my life. I create my mighty sandwich, better than yesterday’s and I was undisturbed. It is eaten and I loved it. I stepped out into the garden to have my post lunch cigarette and Oreo and Luca are laying casually on our garden chairs, staring up at me unimpressed, like I’ve trespassed on to their property. It almost seems like I am not welcome here. Well they are not welcome here! Two predators relaxing in the sun while there is a baby bird scared for it’s life, imprisoned by a cardboard box in the shed. I looked at Oreo and scowled, this was his doing. Then again, it’s just in his nature. Only a couple of hours earlier I noticed Luca sniffing out the areas where the baby bird had scurried when pleading for its mother to help him. Cats are predators and that is that. Now they both sit lay there like two mob bosses awaiting attention and praise. I finished my cigarette and started towards the shed, keeping an eye on the the cats that are now no threat to anything. They were too lazy to move, not even their ears would prick if two blind mice were to run into them.
In all honesty I was quite looking forward to giving the little bird his lunch, it was satisfying to see the baby bird tilt its head back and open wide for me - quite humbling. I realised this was not going to be the case once I had opened the box, a second in my mind thought that he had escaped again, but then I saw the round stiff body of the baby bird stuffed into the bottom right hand corner of the box. It lay still and I knew it was dead. I couldn’t see the head, it was twisted and stuffed so far into the corner it was hidden. The same bird that had titled it’s head for food earlier had now titled it’s head so far that it had snapped. My thoughts were that it had tried so hard to escape that it had broken its neck. An even darker thought went through my mind that it had purposely killed itself - a mixture of fear from the darkness, fear that its mother had abandoned it and fear of no escape. All this could’ve driven this poor little fella to suicide. Even I, probably I, paid a contribution to the fear. This may be a morbid and ridiculous thought that a bird had the capacity to commit suicide however, for something that cannot talk how are we to assume what all animals are capable of thinking and doing?
Sadness crept over me as I lifted the bird from the box and double checked its condition, he was definitely gone. I opened the back gate of the alley and let it rest amongst the bushes. I thought not to bury him as there are plenty of foxes and other wildlife scouring this alleyway that are in need of a meal. As cruel as that sounds to the bird, it is the circle of life and we didn’t want the baby bird to die for nothing, it might just be what keeps a baby fox alive.
I told my mum who believes it died by other means like a heart attack or exhaustion or it was simply unwell and unfit which is why it fell from the nest. Oreo is not good enough to catch a bird that can fly, even a baby one, he even struggles to jump over fences without hitting his head first. All I know is that it couldn’t have suffocated, too many holes were punctured, it surely couldn’t have been that. I want to know whether I could’ve done more, got it a cage or something, I suppose these things just happen and this is just the way it is. It’s easier when Oreo brings back dead prey as opposed to live and injured, it’s easier because for one I don’t believe Oreo is that good a predator to catch live one, and two, with a dead animal, I know then that I cannot blame myself if it dies for I could not have helped it in the first place.
I scruffed Oreo’s head as he stretched out on the chair and told him he didn’t need to bring any more gifts for me. All I need is him.
If you want to know my writing process behind my stories go to my Process Page.
To read into my process for this particular short story click here: Sparrow Process