One Bird, Two Bird, Brown Bird, Bluebird

Bluebird

When I was about five years old, we had a pet bluebird for the space of approximately two weeks. Here's how it happened - I found a baby bluebird that had fallen from its nest. I went and told my mom and older sister to come and look at it because it was super cute. 

Megan: I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to pick it up. The mom won't take it back if you touch it. 

Mom: (quickly glancing in each direction) I don't see it's mom anywhere. And I don't want our cats to eat it. I'll just wear some gloves to pick it up. 

When the mother bluebird returned to the nest later that day, my mom tried to reintroduce the baby to the mother by holding it up in her gloved hands. I guess her body language didn't communicate the message of, "Here you go! I saved your baby!" very clearly. Or maybe my sister was right, because the mother bird gave zero shits about taking that baby back.

So, we had a new pet. A baby bluebird! I knew a lot of interesting people with a lot of interesting pets, but none with a baby bluebird. This was going to be awesome!

Baby Blue

In a previous post I said I was having trouble remembering the baby bluebird's name. I now remember that we called it Baby Blue after the George Strait song, of course. Because that song isn't depressing enough, we later got to be reminded of a dead pet when we heard it. (Also, Baby Blue is not to be confused with my first cat, Old Blue, who may or may not make an appearance in a later post.)

We set out with the best intentions. I remember my mother calling the local animal hospital and being given instructions to get a heat lamp for the bird and a dropper with some sort of baby food mixture to drip food into the baby bird's beak. It would need to be fed every two hours and the heat lamp would need to be on a timer so that the bird was never too hot or too cold. I'm not sure at what point my mother regretted having brought this bird into the house and letting us name it, but I know that she must have. Maybe around the time that she had to set an alarm to wake up every two hours during the night or buy actual baby food for a bird. However, she set to work right away and bought the necessary supplies and equipment to be this bird's new mother. The baby bird nursery was arranged in the bathroom, on one corner of the tub.

At one point, we even made a trip downtown to visit an exotic pet store. My mom asked the salesman for resources on caring for a baby bluebird. The man then got into a verbal confrontation with her, explaining to her that it was illegal to have a domesticated bluebird. She said something like, "Well what do you want me to do? Just let it die?" And he suggested that she turn the bird over to animal control. We left the store quickly without another word to the salesman.

I remember being very distraught the whole way home in the car thinking that we were all going to jail for housing an illegal pet. I stated this concern several times to my mother, who ignored me. I think her patience with the whole bluebird situation was wearing rather thin.

A Downhill Turn

At some point, Baby Blue's situation took a turn for the worst. Despite following all the rules (except for the one about not taking a bluebird into your home), the little bird was just not doing well. It was becoming pretty clear that the bird was not going to make it.

I should admit that I was a rather dramatic child. I think when my parents knew that the death of this bird was inevitable, they warned my sister and I that we should say our goodbyes. I think the bird held on a little longer than expected. I distinctly remember at least three mornings before school where I took some time to cry over the little bird's bed and tell it a heart-felt goodbye as I was sure it would be dead by the time I returned home. I'm sure anyone would have thought that I had known the animal my whole life, rather than approximately 14 days.

One night, Baby Blue passed away. But not before we took in another wild bird that we found outside.

Brown Bird

At some point during this whole ordeal, our cats did attack a small bird near our home. I came across an injured brown bird and, having not learned my lesson, told my mom about it. I think since Baby Blue's prospects weren't looking so good Mom thought that we might forget about that bird dying if she saved another bird instead! Or maybe she had just invested so much time and money in bird-saving equipment that she thought she might as well save any wild bird she came across. I'm really not sure what the logic was here, but she brought the bird into the house.

It quickly became apparent that this bird was in even worse condition than Baby Blue. I don't even think we named it. I think that even as a five-year-old child I was like, "Nah. Let's not get our hopes up on this one."

The brown bird made a noise that we'd never heard from the bluebird! That was kind of neat, at first. Until it became obvious that it was making that noise out of distress and because nothing we were doing was actually helping to repair any of its internal injuries. Then the bluebird starting making a distressed noise, too. Like it learned it from the brown bird. Then I think we all started making distressed noises, because we had two very ill animals living in our bathroom and no idea how to turn the situation around.

When my father came home one day to find that we had - yet another - dying bird in the house, I think he was a little distressed.

Dad: "Why in the hell do we have two dying birds in our bathroom?"
Mom: "Shhh. Don't say that. We are going to save them."
Dad: "Oh, God. What happened to that brown one? Are those teeth marks in it?"
Mom: "Yes. We rescued it from being eaten by our cats."
Dad: "You should have let them finish the job. There is no sense in letting it die in here!" 

Hard to say who was right, really. I mean, on one hand, the bird-rescue project kept us busy for a few weeks. And I think there were probably some good lessons to be learned from it. But the birds still died in the end and our cats never got to enjoy eating them. So, I'd say, the victim in this situation is still pretty unclear. I mean, you could argue that everyone was a victim. The birds, the cats, my mother, my father... but especially me. Obviously. Because it is now twenty years later and I am still debating the merits of bringing wild birds into the house to attempt to nurse them back to health.

P.S. I realize that my first two posts have been about birds, but I'm trying to ease you guys into the bigger stuff. You have to build up a tolerance to this kind of story.