These were the words I spoke when I first met Buddy at the Rehab Center. The Wildlife Rehab Center, that is.
Most of the animals that came to the Center were rescued and successfully rehabilitated by caring human staff. But there were certain exceptions for non-native species of animals that were considered to be invasive. Being a non-profit organization, the Center was always struggling to fund its noble gifts of animal charity, and relied heavily on donations and volunteers. Many of the Center's supporters were also avid wildlife lovers who detested invasive species. Obviously, they would not be happy to see their time and money go toward rehabilitating "pests." And so it was that the Center staff had to spend their springs and summers making decisions about which birds to keep for rehabilitation.
Among the ranks of the least welcome animals were House Sparrows and European Starlings, both of whom had been brought from Europe to the United States and promptly disrupted the delicate balance of the bird world. These alien birds had practically taken over the country, and Starlings were well known for their vicious habits against native birds. During the off-season, when the Center wasn't being inundated with baby birds, an occasional injured "E-Sparrow" or Starling would be granted a short hospital stay. But in the mayhem months from May to August, when nearly half the baby bird intakes were Starlings, the young were humanely euthanized instead. It was often a sad and difficult thing for the staff to do. But knowing full well the alternatives - wasting precious resources on pests, or letting the babies starve - the staff carried out the necessary euthanasia with stoic sympathy.
Over the summers that I worked at the Center, I learned a few interesting facts about Starlings. One was that they could talk - yes, talk! - in the same way that parrots learn to imitate their owners. Another was that Starlings could actually become decent pets in the home. One of the volunteers had long ago rescued a young Starling from the Center and raised it as a personal pet. As it turns out, even Mozart had purchased a Starling back in 1784, and had so much loved his bird that a ceremonial funeral procession was arranged upon its death. With all this talk about the pet-ability of starlings, the seed of my interest was planted.One day, during my 5th summer working at the Center, I found one of the Clinic Directors in her office, trying to feed a baby bird with a syringe. One glance at the nestling's over-sized yellow beak told me what it was, and I gave the Director a skeptical frown.
"Don't tell anyone I'm doing this!" she said with an anxious grin. "I'm just taking care of him until he gets picked up." Another staff member, who obviously disagreed with the Center's policy on invasive species, was in the practice of taking in young invasives, rehabilitating them on her own, and releasing them to the wild. But the Clinic Director had been unable to contact this person, so she was stuck babysitting the hungry chick while she awaited word.
"Hey," she asked me, "you wouldn't want to take him, would you?" I knew that my superior was only partly joking. She made one of those searching expressions, trying to gauge my interest without appearing too hopeful. I could tell she wanted me to take that bird off her hands.
But I immediately turned down the offer. In the summer of 2005, I was in the middle of starting rigorous studies in graduate school, moving out of my home, and moving into an apartment with my boyfriend. It was such a a busy time for me. How could I possibly have the time to care for and raise a hungry baby bird?
The Director and I shared a friendly discussion about the Starling controversy. Although it certainly seemed more romantic to raise and release the starlings along with the Robins, Grackles, Mockingbirds, and Blue Jays, I felt that it was a practice that got the ecosystem nowhere. The policy at the Rehab Center was perfectly logical: Don't make it any easier for these pests to invade the world. I felt I couldn't live with myself if I purposely went against the idea of restoration; the idea that humans should at least try not to contribute to the advancement of the harmful Starling population. So I firmly declined the opportunity to raise and release the bird.
"Well," the Clinic Director replied, "Maybe he'd make a good pet for you, instead."
A busy full-time veterinarian, the Director left me to feed and water the lonesome creature while she attended to her overdue chores. The nearly naked nestling was considerably dehydrated, causing him to fall asleep often, which made him difficult to feed. When touched or shaken, he would weakly lift his pin-feathered head and cheep a few times before dropping back down into slumber.
My five summers at the Center had taught me how to deal with this obstacle. I took the bird's personal paintbrush, dipped it into his plastic water bowl, and carefully painted clean water along the seam between his upper and lower beak. When a tiny drop of water finally seeped into his thirsty mouth, the little guy perked up, tossed up his beak and opened it in a silent gape for more. Most nestlings - especially Starlings - make a raucous cheeping sound when they are holding their mouths open. But this little guy was so weak, he couldn't even cry for food.
"Hey, come on, buddy," I whispered to the bird. "You're okay. You just need to eat this food… Come on, have some water, buddy!" And as the tiny bird's wilting energy slowly improved, I put my thoughts together and made a decision.
This bird would become my Buddy.
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