© Flickr/M.A.The phone rang. A lady in Thornhill had found a baby bird on her sidewalk. In mid-May, in suburbia, locally, the chances were that he was a house sparrow, or perhaps a chipping sparrow, given how “tiny” she said he was (thus ruling out other possibilities, like starlings and robins). After ascertaining that there was no nest to be found, I told her how to go online and find a rehabber who might deal with him and how to keep him overnight, and was she sure he was a baby? Could she see fluffy down?[teaserbreak]
Oh, yes.
Could she send me a photo?
Indeed.
Late that night, I opened her email and there were photos of an adult male northern parula (pictured above): a migratory warbler, one of many species of small, insect-eating songbirds who migrate through our region each year, most continuing to the north woods. Caring for such a bird is extremely difficult, but my late mother, Phyllis E. MacKay, was a pioneer rehabber who specialized in developing procedures to care for these birds. I immediately wrote back and told her to bring the bird to me, which she did the next day.
Each year, many thousands of such small birds fly into tall buildings or hit windows. Many die immediately; some are just lightly dazed; and some, like this little bird, suffer significant and dangerous concussions. His fluffed feathers and immobility were classic symptoms. Chances of survival were very close to nil.
I had long ago decided not to do wildlife rehabilitation for a multitude of reasons, but mainly because I was saddened by the numerous failures and frustrated by how many ways humanity finds to hurt and kill wildlife, whether intentionally or incidentally. And so, I decided to devote my life and resources to trying to stop individual assaults on the wild animals I knew so well and loved so much.
Thus, I no longer raise live insects or have specialized equipment.
I was able to force a bit of high protein food into the bird, but that’s not a sufficient diet. And, the caloric benefit of the food was counteracted by the caloric output from the stress of force feeding. Still, after a few hours, he was starting to come around.
With the long Victoria Day weekend coming up, I phoned all local pet shops, but none sold live insects. So, I got out my ancient, battered net and swept wet fields, catching very few insects in the cool, rainy weather. I chilled them to slow their metabolism and dumped them into his cage. To my delight, he learned what I was doing, and would eat the tiny spiders, flies, leafhoppers, and ants I could find—still not enough, but better than nothing.
In a pinch, hungry warblers may eat tiny berries, and I got him to eat tiny bits of blueberry and raspberry. It was just not enough. After three days, he died in his sleep. In his memory, I would like to direct you here.
Keep wildlife in the wild,
Barry