“Suzie!” bellowed a familiar voice. “Where are you? Come out here! I have a bird for you!”
When Ruth summons you, you respond, especially if she is shouting at you from your own living room.
“There I was, walking Rolfie through that field down by the river,” she explained, gesturing animatedly out the window toward the large long-haired German shepherd circling the house. “And I see these two robins, and one is kicking the crap out of the other one! Really! Beating the bejesus out of him! So I figure I can’t leave him there with his wing hanging down and all, so I picked him up and put him in the back of the car! And he’s out there right now waiting for you!”
Years before, my writer/editor friend Robert Hutchinson and I were part of a small group locked in battle with a developer who wanted to build an $80 million retirement complex in the middle of our tiny hamlet. A typical e-mail from Robert would include a prospective strategy based on a section of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, a proverb in the original German, several outrageous puns, an aside on the geological anomalies located beneath the land in question, the coda of an ancient Celtic battle hymn, and a scathing critique of the developer’s haircut. Soon after the developer was sent packing I invited Robert and his wife, whom I had never met, to dinner. Five minutes before they arrived I had an anxiety attack.
“Why didn’t I invite other people as a cushion?” I said to John. “Opposites attract. She’s going to be some mousy little thing that never opens her mouth, and we’re all going to end up sitting there staring at each other.”
Robert’s wife Ruth turned out to be the former Ruth Copeland, a blues singer from a small town in northern England who arrived in this country in the early sixties, immediately embarking on an odyssey that included dodging police bullets during the Detroit race riots and touring the country with Parliament-Funkadelic and Sly & the Family Stone. Ruth launched into a description of a concert where she belted out rock anthems while wearing a buckskin bikini and full Indian headdress and swinging from a trapeze above a packed house; Robert countered with a fond remembrance of chasing a neighborhood drug dealer, who had punched Ruth over a pay-phone dispute, down Broadway with a meat hammer.
“Come on, then,” said Ruth, “come and get this bird out of my car.”
I hesitated. I had made one exception, and was not about to make another.
“I’m going to give you my friend Maggie’s number, and you call her and she’ll take the robin.”
“What?” said Ruth, staring at me as if I’d sprouted a second head. “Why would I call someone else? You’re the bird lady, and I’ve brought you a bird.”
“But Ruth,” I said firmly. “I’m not set up for injured birds, I’m only taking the ones that are healthy enough to go out into the flight cage.”
“Right,” she said, rolling her eyes and pushing me toward the door. “Well. Once you fix his wing I’m sure he’ll be healthy enough to go into the flight cage. Now hurry up and get him out of my bloody car before he covers it with guano.”
One more exception, I told myself. Only this one. And only because the bird was from a personal friend who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
I could feel the fracture in the robin’s humerus. But I wasn’t sure if that was the only damage, and driving the ninety-minute round trip to Alan’s office was simply not in the cards on this Saturday morning. However, the vet who treated Maggie’s injured wildlife divided her time between her own mobile veterinary service and the Cortlandt Animal Hospital, which is a relatively short distance from my house. It was worth a try.
“She said to bring the robin in,” replied Janet Hartmann, the hospital receptionist who had listened sympathetically to my problem. “How’s twelve-thirty?”
Wendy Westrom, VMD, knows her way around wildlife, having started out as a staff veterinarian at the Bronx Zoo. There she met her future husband, Dr. Fred Koontz, who was then the curator of mammals. Fred and Wendy’s rented apartment became the unofficial rehab area for a long and varied list of ailing creatures, among them an abandoned baby sea lion that the resourceful and unflappable Wendy smuggled into an unused hot tub downstairs. Wendy is incredibly generous with her skills, manages to see the bright side of any situation, and excels at calming anyone distraught over wildlife, all of which have earned her the undying gratitude of countless rehabbers and members of the public.
Wendy X-rayed and wrapped the robin’s wing, chatted with me about bird rehab, told me she was at the hospital on Wednesdays, Fridays, and some Saturdays, and offered to help me with any birds that needed veterinary care. “Maggie tells me you have two beautiful flight cages,” she said.
I nodded. “I really only take birds that are ready to fly. I have two kids, and I don’t have the space for injured birds.”
Wendy gestured to the robin. “You mean except for that one?” she asked with a grin.
“Yeah,” I said. “Except for that one.”
“I have one that a rehabber just dropped off,” said Wendy, “He’s unreleasable and going to a sanctuary on Long Island. They’re going to pick him up in a couple of days. Could he stay in one of your flights? It would be a lot nicer for him than my basement.”
“Sure!” I said.
As Wendy left the room it occurred to me that I hadn’t asked her what kind of bird it was. Did “I have one” mean another robin or another bird? Wendy returned and placed a very large cardboard box on the floor. From within the box came an audible rustling, then a loud thud. Wendy saw my expression.
“It’s a redtail,” she said. “Is that okay?”
I hesitated. I had already made two exceptions, and was not about to make another. But Wendy had just done me a favor and was so generous about offering her help. The red-tailed hawk was staying only a couple of days and would require little care.
And I love redtails.
“It’s okay,” I said.
Red-tailed hawks are a relatively common species, found throughout the United States and readily seen soaring above a field or surveying the road from a tall tree. Their call is the famous hoarse descending screech that Hollywood always equates with “bird” no matter where the movie takes place or what kind of bird actually appears on the screen. Redtails are big and fierce but matter-of-fact; once they settle into a rehab situation they can be mellow and easy patients. And this particular redtail wasn’t even a patient: his wing, broken near the shoulder joint, had already healed, leaving him unable to fly but otherwise perfectly healthy.
I carried the box to the flight cage, congratulating myself on having the foresight to ask Bruce and Michael’s crew to put up one large raptor perch—just in case—before they finished construction. A thick dowel covered with outdoor carpeting and bolted at an angle to one corner, it needed only a ramp to provide the flightless redtail with access to a comfortable perch. I hunted around until I found a thick, solid tree limb that had fallen to the ground, and dragging it into the flight cage, I leaned it against one side of the perch and secured it with rope. I took down two of the hanging branches, not wanting the hawk to be tempted to try to go for them.
The two finches were in the second flight. I opened the dividing door, stuck my head in to check on them, and nearly lost my eye to the speeding goldfinch, who hurtled past me in a brilliant yellow blur. After pulling the door shut I opened the cardboard box and tipped it over slowly, allowing the redtail to trot out by himself. He looked around, climbed up the ramp, and settled onto the perch.
I headed back to the car for the robin but made a quick detour to the freezer in the garage. Bought to store the spillover from our small kitchen unit, it was filled with the usual assortment of foods except for the bottom drawer, which held two bags of large rats. They were a gift from a friend at the local zoo, who had received a big shipment of raptor food and knew I was starting a bird rehab operation.
“You say you’re only doing songbirds,” she had said, “but I know how that goes.”
I pulled one of the rats out, carried it into the kitchen, locked it into a new freezer bag, and slid it into a plastic tub filled with hot water. I put the whole thing on top of the washing machine, which was hidden behind a set of folding doors, and covered it carefully with a dishtowel. Returning to the car, I removed the robin’s carrier and brought it into the extra bathroom.
“Mommy!” shouted Skye from upstairs. “Is that you? Where is my blue sweatshirt?”
“It’s me,” I called back. “And it’s folded on the dryer.”
I heard her thundering down the stairs, loudly caroling her way through the month of May. “Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la, la la la la…”
I stopped. No, there was no way she’d notice. It was covered with a dishtowel.
“Tis the season to be…”
The song was interrupted by an ear-splitting scream. I bolted from the bathroom.
“What’s the matter?” shouted John, rushing down the stairs with Mac on his heels.
Skye stood rigid, eyes wide, staring at the top of the washing machine.
“There’s a giant mouse up there!” she gasped. “And he’s dead in a freezer bag!”
John and Mac followed her gaze and grimaced. Then, as one, all three turned and looked at me.
“Uhhh,” I said. “It’s, um, actually, it’s a rat. It’s food. For the redtail.”
“Redtail!” said Mac. “Where’d you get a redtail?”
“Well!” I replied, “I brought the robin to the vet, and as it turned out…”
“Wait a minute!” John interrupted. “Where’d you get the rat?”
“From the freezer in the garage,” I said.
John looked aghast. “There are rats in our freezer?” he said.
I decided to take the offensive. “They’ve been there for two months!” I shot back. “So I think it’s a little late to start getting upset!”
“But what about the mouse?” wailed Skye.
Wildlife rehabilitation is a moral minefield, beginning with the food you serve the recuperating patients. Raptors, as well as many other birds, need to eat whole animals in order to stay healthy. You can buy mice and rats, but the cost is prohibitive. Although I would venture to say that while very few rehabilitators support animal testing, most who care for raptors receive mice and rats from companies that breed them to sell to laboratories. The companies donate the extra or imperfect ones, already dead, to rehabilitators. You can rail about animal testing and feel badly about the death of so many animals; thinking that the dead are the lucky ones doesn’t help. But the bottom line is that without these donations, nursing certain birds back to health would be impossible.
It was something I had wrestled and come to terms with years ago. It was something I would eventually explain to my kids. But as we were all sitting around the kitchen table, under the watchful eyes of the parrots, I felt the subject was something I could put it off a bit longer.
“Listen,” I said. “I know I said I was only taking songbirds, but sometimes things get a little complicated and I end up with, say, a redtail, and the redtail needs to eat a rat. So I get the rats that are already frozen from the zoo, and I just put them in the freezer and take them out when I need them. And they’re all in bags and they’re in a separate drawer in the freezer so you don’t have to worry about cooties or anything.”
“But where did the rats come from?” said Skye.
“From the zoo,” I answered, knowing fully well what she meant.
“But where did the zoo get them?” she pressed.
“I’m not sure,” I said evasively. “I’ll have to find out.”
“Probably they were already dead when the zoo got them,” said Mac. “And if they’re dead, they’re dead, and that’s pretty much all there is to it.”
“Do me a favor,” said John. “Defrost them in the garage, all right?”
“The poor rat,” said Skye. “I think we should have a funeral and bury him.”
“We are going to bury him,” said Mac. “Inside the redtail.”
Zack let out a jungle shriek.
“I couldn’t have said it better,” said John.