Meet Friend

It was a cold early February morning when I discovered an injured Evening Grosbeak at the base of my back porch steps. I did not examine the bird closely. I simply assumed that it had flown against a window and had knocked itself senseless. In the past when this had occurred, I'd achieved a fairly high survival rate by simply providing a warm, protected spot for my patient to recover for a few hours. However, temperatures had not been quite as cold as they were on this day. I placed the injured bird inside a box on the porch, nested in a coiled towel, hoping for the best.

Grosbeaks are among my favorite "people." My late husband gave them the nickname "porch parrots" after the eruption of Mt. St. Helens knocked the migrating flock off their flyway. By the hundred, they came to our porch in search of food; burned, blinded, injured. From that year on, they always returned, having mapped the house as a reliable and abundant feeding ground. Those great green beaks packed away 400 pounds of black-oil sunflower seed during a record six-week interval. "Porch parrots" indeed!

As I observed my small patient throughout the day, I grew worried. He was not responding as well as I'd have liked. The forecast promised an overnight low in the teens, so in the interest of making the poor creature comfortable, I moved box and bird into the garage for the night, but the more I thought about it, the less satisfied I was with that solution. At bedtime, I brought him indoors in the box, put him in my back bedroom and placed a window screen over the open lid, with food and water available. "This story is going to have a sad ending," I said to myself when I turned in, but such was not the case. When I got up in the morning, the bird was still alive, sitting right where he'd been when I went to bed. No change.

Thus began what turned into one of the most memorable experiences of my life. Meet Friend, a gentle little soul who had a long journey back to health.

A Rescue

A day went by and my little patient moved around inside the box to some degree, but he wasn't eating or drinking. Then it occurred to me that his surroundings were entirely unfamiliar to him within those stark cardboard walls. He needed something natural, and since nothing is more natural to an Evening Grosbeak than the fir boughs they nest in, I salvaged a branch from the yard, something knocked down by a winter storm. The following morning when I checked on my friend, I noticed a few empty sunflower seed shells on the floor of his hospital room. He perched on the edge of the towel "nest" I had provided, watching nervously as I tidied up the floor of the box.

Comfortable Accommodations

Friend. Yes, with a little more hope in my heart than when I first took this fellow in, naming came naturally. The question was whether or not I'd taken on a responsibility which would continue through the rest of Friend's life. He was showing no inclination to fly out of the box when I lifted the screen cover away. I noticed that he carried one wing hung low, indicating that it had possibly, probably been broken. From prior experience with an Amazon parrot with a broken wing, I knew that my best course of action was to let it rest and heal. He'd fly...or not...when he was ready.

Here I must insert a caution: rehabilitation of a wild bird is not something the average person should attempt. If you find an injured bird, there are two courses of action available to you. You may either let Nature take its course or if it is possible to do so without risking further injury, you can capture the bird and take it to a veterinarian who will either euthanize it or turn it over to a rehabilitation facility. In Friend's case, I knew that he would be euthanized. However, I was no stranger to handling and caring for ailing birds and was prepared for the commitment required.

What A Difference A Branch Makes

For the first few days after I had put the branch in Friend's box, he had only used it to hide behind when I changed out his food and water, but he soon discovered that he could climb onto it for a more natural perch. He would sit right beneath the screen, but when I removed the screen, he made no attempt to fly out.

It was important to keep his hours on a proper schedule of light and dark since Grosbeaks are migratory birds, governed by the duration of daylight. Each night when the sun went down, I'd tell him, "Time for lights-out-on-parrots!" before I toggled the switch. In the mornings, I'd let sunrise wake him. In fact, I soon discovered that breakfast was his most important meal of the day. Even before it was light enough for me to get up, I could hear through the closed door the sound of sunflower seeds being cracked. But there was no other sound...no chirp or tweet had he uttered. He was eating and he was lightly active, both encouraging signs.

The First Chirp

One week to the day, Friend gave voice with a "CHURP!" It was the first sound he'd uttered since I took him in. He was also getting braver both toward me and in regard to what lay beyond the confines of his box. As I was cleaning his "cage," he'd climb to the top of the branch and sit looking out into the bedroom. In one daring moment, he stepped onto the edge of the cardboard and I was worried that I wouldn't be able to coerce him back inside. Cautious not to frighten him, I moved the screen slowly closer until he jumped, first onto the branch and then onto the floor of the box. What was I going to do if he decided to explore the bedroom? Well, we'd cross that bridge when we came to it. I was already making plans to build an outdoor flight cage where he could live out the remainder of his days if it turned out he was unable to fly.

Fresh Food, Water And TLC

At eight days into his recovery, Friend managed a three-foot flight from the edge of the box to the end of the bed. That it was made at the cost of some pain was obvious because when he landed, he allowed his wing to droop even more than usual and did not try to fly again when I went to put him back in the box. I did not handle him. I simply urged him up onto the screen lid, then turned and allowed him to step down onto the box. As I made to lower the screen over him, he hopped onto the branch quite obligingly.

At this point, I had still not discovered how badly damaged his wing was. Only later did I see the bones protruding through the skin on the bottom side of his "elbow." He was eating well. He was active. He was vocal. Those were the points which kept my hope alive, but I had yet another concern. His flock seemed to be thinning out. His recovery and eventual release was not something I could hurry along. As gregarious as Grosbeaks are, I was afraid his pals might go off and leave him behind.

Friend's Dance

A creature of the wild who by all rights should have been terrified of me, Friend would allow me to gently touch his breast feathers while he was perched on his branch or on the edge of the box. Only once had he nipped me, and that was on the day when I found him helpless on the porch. Did this small being understand that I was doing everything in my power to ensure his survival? Animal behaviouralists will insist not, will say that I am anthropomorphizing intelligence where only instincts exist. But I say to you that this bird, my Friend, should have been panicking inside the house, inside a box, but he was not. Watch the video and see for yourself. Watch Friend dance!

Flying Lessons

At thirteen days into his recovery, Friend made a circuit of the bedroom in three stages, the greatest of which took him from the bed to a handmade wooden music stand which was stored atop the crafts cupboards. The peak of the music stand was within inches of the ceiling, the distance of the flight approximately six feet. If I had been afraid that I couldn't recapture him, I need not have worried. Too high for me to reach without standing on a chair, I simply offered him his familiar branch. He stepped onto it like a parrot would step onto a stick and allowed me to lower him into the box. He let the wing hang at his side, but not as deeply as before. His first real physical therapy had begun.

It was at this point that I saw what I had not seen before. Because he was now perched above me, I could observe the underside of his elbow. Although the skin was regrowing nicely over them, the shattered ends of bones were visible. I found it hard to believe that he was capable of flight, but there he was, going through his paces like a trooper, flexing the joint, stretching tendons and ligaments which had been unused for almost two weeks.

And every day was now filled with the sound of his chirps, especially when he was perched somewhere in the room. He'd dance his dance, talking all the while as if calling to his flock, waiting for their reply. He needed to rejoin them as soon as he was able.

The Wing Is Stronger

In this photo, you catch a glimpse of the injury to Friend's wing. It was from this vantage point that I first observed it. There was still some swelling in the joint, but he was able to flex it well enough to fly. Soon we were doing laps from the box to the music stand, music stand to the bed and back to the music stand again. Occasionally, he would rebel against being lowered into the box, perhaps enjoying his "play time" free in the room. Several times each day, he was allowed free rein for as long as he wished to fly and roam. When he was ready, he'd perch on the music stand and permit me to take it down. Held near the box, he would step onto the edge and hop down to his branch.

A new series of vocalizations had begun as well. In addition to the typical "CHURP!" note, he had begun voicing a tweety trill and as I recorded it in my notes, "a ch-thrrrrilll with a real buzz to it." He ate one big meal of sunflower seeds and diced raisins each morning, only nibbling the occasional seed during the remainder of the day. He still had a ways to go in his convalescence, but I knew that within a week or two, I'd be releasing my Friend into the wild.

Exploration

In addition to Friend's regular meals of black-oil sunflower seed and chopped raisins, I had begun adding a little vitamin-enhanced cockatiel feed to his diet. He took to it readily. We had also made one foray out into the yard, box and all, in the hopes of stimulating his instinct to rejoin his flock even further. My heart ached with the thought of letting him go, and I knew that if I never saw him again, I'd always wonder whether I'd released him too soon.

You might wonder how I would recognize him among the dozens of other Grosbeak males who frequented the feeders. From the time I first found him, one leg bore a large mass of something which appeared to be dried feces. I had made some nominal attempts to remove it, but even a warm water soak failed to achieve the desired result. During his captivity, the mass neither decreased nor increased, so I expected it to remain on the leg once he was released, serving as an identifying "band."

He was certainly enjoying his outings in the bedroom, flying loops at ceiling level from the launching pad of the music stand. He was curious about the Christmas cacti in the window, about the shiny things on top of a multi-drawer cabinet, about things under the guest bed or on the book shelves. It was getting harder to talk him back into the box.

Making Allowances

After three weeks of living in a nice warm bedroom, it was time to begin acclimatizing Friend to outdoor temperatures. To this end, I closed down the heat vent in the room and began leaving the window open at night. Our overnight lows had come up from the teens and were hovering near the freezing point, so the room cooled down to the 40s by morning. I also wanted to stimulate his interest in rejoining his flock, so began playing his own "churps" back to him. His head would pop up at the sound and he'd talk back to the unseen birds. His appetite increased as cooler temperatures boosted his caloric requirements, and now he was gobbling the vitamin-enriched cockatiel feed voraciously.

The day I had initially picked for his release came up rainy and cold. Yes, he'd have to deal with that eventually, but not yet. I decided his tenure in the bedroom wasn't quite ready to end for a few more days.

The Reward

I find in writing Friend's Story that I am reliving many of the emotions I experienced during his convalescence and as the narrative comes to an end, it is almost as difficult to conclude as it was to release him. There were so many things at work here, not the least of which was the fact that only a few weeks prior to Friend's arrival, I had lost a much-loved little kitty during a routine surgery. Soon, I would be setting Friend free into all the uncertainties of the big, wide world. I'd entered into this project with full knowledge of the responsibility and a commitment to do right by this bird. I did not expect a reward of any type, and yet it came to me.

From the beginning, Friend had allowed me to touch his breast feathers with a fingertip while he was perched on his branch or on the edge of the box. When he was free in the bedroom and flying from one roosting place to another, he seldom let me get closer than the width of the music stand. This photo shows an event which only happened once: Friend permitted my touch, and then took my fingertip with his foot and held it for at least a minute. The following day, his natural instincts reasserted themselves. He even seemed wary of me, almost frightened. This was the sign I had hoped for and yet dreaded. Now my head and my heart agreed that it was time.

Friend's Flight

Friend's rehabilitation was complete. I waited for the day to warm up, then took the box out into the yard and knelt down beside it with the camera running. As I lifted the screen away, I wanted to say something profound to send him into his new life, but my chest constricted with emotion and my mind blanked. The tears were streaming down my face as I spoke to him, bidding him to fly up, fly away. There were no words for this, no phrase adequate to express what had been shared between us, a wild creature and a human who had grown to love him, only a deep, choking sob which wrenched itself through my heart and spirit. My throat tightened around something beyond verbal expression. In the next heartbeat, Friend flew.

*****

There is one more entry to be made in this chronicle: Friend's Return.

Friend's Return

That was not the last I saw of Friend. He returned that day and perched in the contorted filbert favored by all my feathered friends. He would allow me to come within eight or ten feet of him, often turning his head on the side and chirping at me. Over the next week, he made daily visits, still easily identifiable by the mass on his leg. There were still a few "porchies" hanging around, and I was happy to see that he picked up with them. Whether they were part of his original flock, I have no idea, but when they left a few weeks later, Friend went with them.

The arrival of the Evening Grosbeaks in January had been untimely. Normally, they'd show up here any time between March and May to stay through early or mid-September. A flock returned in April and one of them seemed far less anxious around me than the others. That bird had a pale leg which exhibited an enlarged aspect, although not as greatly as I remembered Friend's. Was it possible that repeated exposure to rain had washed away encrusted feces? Given the bird's more comfortable demeanor toward me when I was filling the feeders, I was almost entirely convinced Friend had returned. Nearly every day that summer, I had to say, "Move over so I can pour the seeds in there, guy!" when I went to replenish the trays.

It might seem hard to believe, but the following year also saw the return of a less cautious bird, one who would sit on a branch of the contorted filbert while I chatted at it, standing not ten feet from its perch. I could not say for certain that it was Friend, because any identifying "band" had long since disappeared. And this year (the second summer since I released Friend), a male Grosbeak walked casually up my sidewalk and stood a few feet from my toes, head cocked to one side, making eye contact with me. The friends who have encouraged me to write this story believe it was my small Friend, back again. Was it? Grosbeaks may live up to 25 years, according to some sources.

My acquaintance with Friend was brief, but without a doubt, it was the most profound experience of my lifetime. The trust he gave me, the reward of that minute when we "held hands" cannot be matched by anything else I have achieved. Fly up, Friend! Fly! And my heart flies with you.