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  Ninety-five percent of the injuries suffered by wildlife are the direct result of human activity; the trouble with working at a wildlife rehabilitation center is that you get to see the unending parade of damage firsthand. After several years I decided to try to help prevent the breakage, not just pick up the pieces. Fresh from creating the center’s newsletter, I contacted several local newspapers to see if they would be interested in publishing an environmental column written by Elizabeth T. Vulture, an ornery, unreleasable turkey vulture who actually resided at the raptor center. I supplied a head shot of Elizabeth, several columns, and a list of potential topics. A small chain of upstate papers took the bait, and Elizabeth—snide, sarcastic, prone to black humor, and unimpressed with the human race—had a monthly column.

  Elizabeth ranted and raved about pesticides, poisons, outdoor cats, habitat destruction, electrocution of raptors on utility poles, pigeon shoots, predator control, real estate developers, right-wing congressmen, and Wise Use movement members; during lighter moments she included feather-wearing in women’s fashion, those who use dissected animals to create “art,” and PMS (pre-migrating syndrome). The real Elizabeth became a local celebrity, turning her back on those who tried to photograph her and snaking her bald head through the bars of her flight cage in an attempt to bite her fans. Things went swimmingly until the owner, a good liberal environmentalist, sold the newspaper chain. Soon after, I received a call from the editor.

  “Listen,” he said. “Elizabeth is going to have to…uh…tone it down.”

  “What?” I said. “Why?”

  “It’s the new owners,” he said. “Now we have a legal department. They said they’re afraid that if they print that last piece you wrote, Monsanto will sue them.”

  “You’re not serious,” I said.

  “I am serious,” he replied.

  “They’re afraid Monsanto will sue them?” I burst out. “They should hope Monsanto will sue them! A mother of two who lives in the woods and takes care of hurt birdies and writes as a vulture for a tiny chain of newspapers gets sued by the huge evil chemical conglomerate that brought us Agent Orange and Frankenfoods and DDT? The company that nearly caused the extinction of our national bird? Are you kidding me?”

  “I know, I know,” said the editor. “If it were up to me…”

  “What do they think they are, the New York Times?” I railed. “I’ll tell you what—you convince them to print it, then I’ll send it to Monsanto myself with a cover letter saying ‘Go ahead and sue me, you bastards! I can’t wait to see a head shot of your CEO next to a head shot of Elizabeth! Who do you think will win this one?’”

  As it turned out, Monsanto won. The new owners insisted that the company would sue them, not me, and said that if I wanted to continue to write for them I had to be “nicer.” There went the writing gig.

  I contacted a New York agent, who read a stack of clippings and said she could get me a weekly column. It was a hard decision. I might be able to foam at the mouth entertainingly, but I preferred to sit alone in a flight cage filled with birds of prey. I wanted to spread the environmental word, but I was afraid a weekly column would take me away from my children—both of whom, I was still convinced, were doomed by having me as a mother. I put the column on hold for my family, whose personalities seemed to grow more extreme by the day.

  There was John, who wrote deliberately controversial science articles, then chortled happily over his resulting hate mail, and who explained being fired from Scientific American magazine after the publication of his book The End of Science by saying, “I guess the marketing department didn’t think it was funny.”

  There was our son Mac, who by age six had an almost mystical connection with birds and liked to sit cross-legged at the local Buddhist monastery, yet who was obsessed with machine guns and ceremonial swords. There was our daughter Skye, seventeen months younger, who would careen through her days at the speed of sound, ripping cabinet doors off their hinges, launching herself from the tops of bookshelves, and during the occasional meditative moment, absently chewing on electrical cords. There was Zack, the swaggering little yellow-collared macaw, who would bite our guests, then laugh uproariously in a voice suspiciously like mine. And there was Mario, the recently rescued African grey parrot, who would soar through the house whistling old Motown songs, searching for wallets and important letters he could chew to pieces. Encircled by this daily maelstrom, I was even more grateful for my quiet and solitary moments with the wild birds.

  But all nonprofit organizations, especially those run almost exclusively by volunteers, are subject to fluctuation and change, and often philosophical differences can be solved only by a parting of ways. After I left the organization I went through raptor withdrawal, staring longingly at the occasional hawk soaring over my head, knowing the nearest alternative raptor center was over an hour and a half away. The solution came in a phone call from a local lady who had heard that I worked with birds, who called to ask if I could help two swans imbedded with fishhooks and trailing fishing line. Later that day I sat on my deck—scratched, bruised, exhausted, covered with marsh muck, and speckled with ticks—and thought: this is great. I’ll rescue and take care of injured wild birds at home. I’ll set up a small, local one-person operation and my bird world will be steady, self-contained, and completely under my control. All the decisions will be mine, and mine alone.

  It seemed like a plan.

  Chapter 3

  PROBLEMS AND SOLUTIONS

  Now that I am older, wiser, and more haggard, I look back on my decision to rehabilitate wild birds at home with incredulity. There is only one sane way to get your wild animal fix: by volunteering at a bird or wildlife center. You show up, you work hard, you go home, you resume your life. Your wildlife work may occasionally spill over into your regular life, but it will not engulf it like a tidal wave, which is what happens when you attempt to set up shop at home.

  This fact of life had been explained to me by several veteran rehabilitators, all of whom burst into gales of laughter when I said I was going to combine bird rehab with family life.

  “How old are your kids?” said one, wiping her eyes.

  “I’m going to start next spring,” I said firmly. “They’ll be seven and eight.”

  “Hmmm,” she said, assuming a perplexed expression. “Was I going to feed the kids and worm the crows—or vice versa?”

  “It’ll be great for your marriage,” added another. “Men just love women covered in bird doo.”

  “I’m already covered in bird doo,” I said. “I have parrots.”

  A third bugged her eyes and stared maniacally into space. “‘I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,’” she hissed. “‘Just get these owls off me.’”

  I scoffed at their lurid predictions. People create their own destiny, I had always thought; you could weasel your way into or out of any situation, given the right motivation. The key was to be specific. Where there was a problem, there was a solution.

  I swung into action.

  The problem: how to start a wild bird rehabilitation operation, at home, from scratch. I contacted the bird rehabilitators in my area, of whom there were surprisingly few, and found that what was desperately needed—besides more rehabilitators—was a good flight cage. Flight cages are the large outdoor enclosures where recovering adults can regain their wing strength and juveniles can learn to fly before they are released. At that point I was familiar only with raptor flights, the enormous enclosures made of evenly spaced wooden slats. Federal regulations prescribe flight-cage size according to each species; a flight cage for a red-tailed hawk, the most common raptor species in my area, must be at least ten feet by fifty feet by twelve feet.

  It didn’t take me long to figure out that building a proper raptor flight cage was a pipe dream. Our property’s terrain is hilly, rocky, and heavily wooded; a few phone calls revealed that I couldn’t even afford to build the flight, let alone clear the trees and bulldoze the hills so I had somewhere t
o put it. But at least an injured raptor could go to the raptor center; from what I had heard, there were no flight cages available for the injured waterbirds and songbirds of my area. I thought fondly of the swans I had just freed from their web of lines and fishhooks. The problem was that recuperating waterbirds eventually need water, and our pond was located at the very edge of the property, far from the house and right next to the road.

  The solution: I would build a flight cage for songbirds only. Since I couldn’t accommodate the birds I had come to know, I would return to the birds of my childhood—the small perching birds of gardens and backyards. I had never lost the feeling I had experienced when I first stood outside my house, seed-filled hand outstretched and a chickadee hovering inches away. I still viewed even captive wild birds as mysterious and otherworldly, essentially untamable, my brief proximity to them a rare and fragile gift. If songbirds were the neediest birds in my area, then a songbird flight cage was what I would build.

  The problem: I needed a clinic. Early on I actually considered breaking through the wall of our bedroom and adding a small bird hospital room, complete with heat and running water. A rehabber friend, to whom I will be forever grateful, seized me by the shoulders and said firmly, “Just get a gun and shoot yourself in the head. It would be quicker.”

  The hospital room also fell victim to financial reality. As I searched for alternatives, I regarded myself critically. I had a husband, two young children, and two parrots; common sense dictated that there were only so many creatures I could care for at once. But I knew what I was prone to and, worse, what I was capable of. I needed parameters set in stone, not subject to the vagaries of chance and my own bad influence.

  The solution: I would not take injured birds at all. I would build a songbird flight cage and announce that I would take in only small birds from other rehabbers—adult birds who had recovered from their injuries and just needed conditioning, or juveniles who simply needed to practice flying before release. Once I had my license and the Department of Environmental Conservation asked if they could give my name out to the public, I would say no. By removing the clinic, I actually believed that I was removing the one thing that would allow my bird operation to spiral out of control.

  The problem: how to learn to care for songbirds, who have neither talons nor any desire to eat defrosted rats. I bought books. I borrowed books. I surfed the net and printed out information. I joined Wildlife Rehab, an electronic mailing list that encompasses all wildlife, but I set up my account so I received only e-mail regarding wild birds. Electronic mailing lists are a godsend for rehabbers, especially single ones working out of their homes. Once you join, you are linked with rehabilitators from all over the country—sometimes from all over the world—and whenever a member of the group posts an e-mail, you receive it. Subscribers include newcomers and veterans, single rehabbers and those working in wildlife centers and zoos, specialists who deal with only one type of bird and those who deal with whatever comes through the door. For example, someone posts a question, “What is the best diet and setup for a hooded warbler with a broken leg?” and inevitably another writes back, “I’ve done hundreds of hooded warblers! My middle name is Hooded Warbler!” and showers the subscribers with advice and tips, which I would dutifully print out and file alphabetically in a purple three-ring binder labeled “SPECIES SPECIFIC.”

  The solution: sweat equity, the currency of rehabilitators everywhere. I spent months helping a friend who rehabs all kinds of birds, including the ridiculously small ones. During one of my first visits she showed me how to hold an injured chipping sparrow (weight, 10 grams).

  “Look here,” she said. “You see that thing on his foot?”

  “His foot!” I said. “I can barely see the bird.”

  The problem: how to build a songbird flight cage when the only flights I had ever seen were for raptors. I went on field trips. I visited several bird rehabilitation centers, took photos, photocopied their blueprints, and interviewed the volunteers about what they would change if they could. Songbird flight cages are smaller than those built for raptors, but the entire enclosure must be encased in metal hardware cloth (which is like chicken wire but stronger and has small squares) and lined with soft mesh. I asked questions: A-frame versus straight rectangle? Loft or no loft? What was the best substrate?

  The solution: It was an A-frame with a small loft, encased in half-inch hardware cloth, lined with plastic mesh, and had natural flooring with added organic soil and wood chips.

  The problem: where to put the flight cage. It needed to be near the house, but not too near the house. It needed sun, but not too much sun. Wherever it was built would entail cutting down some trees, but I hoped not too many trees. It couldn’t be built on rock ledge—which probably lay beneath half our property—because a trench a foot and a half deep would have to be dug around the perimeter of the cage, the hardware cloth rolled downward and angled out and weighted with rocks, all to deter digging predators.

  The solution: 150 feet southwest of the house, tucked into a small valley between two hills. If the flight cage were angled properly, it would be protected from the north wind and receive dappled sunlight throughout the day. There were rocks, but they were removable. The area was large enough so I could expand the size of the flight—maybe even build two. And the only tree that would need to come down was a huge old dying oak that had been struck by lightning and was already listing alarmingly to one side.

  The possibility of two flight cages and the avoidance of healthy tree slaughter: this was becoming intoxicating.

  The problem: who would build the songbird flight cage? (It wasn’t going to be me.) I grabbed the telephone. Had I been more plugged in to the local home-building scene, I would never have had the nerve to call Bruce Donohue and Michael Chandler, who, unbeknownst to me, were renowned for their high-end, elegant craftsmanship. As it turned out, they were also faithful environmentalists with a soft spot for nonprofit work. They were enthusiastic about aiding the recovery of injured wild birds, and they happened to have a small hole in their schedule.

  The solution: Bruce and Michael looked at the site, studied the blueprints, gave me a generous break on their fee, and said they could have it up in a week. I was the proverbial snowball rolling down the hill.

  The problem: I needed both a New York State Wildlife Rehabilitator’s license and a federal permit to rehabilitate migratory birds. A state license allows the rehabilitator to care for mammals, reptiles, amphibians, and nonnative birds (house sparrows, starlings, and pigeons). Potential rehabbers have to pass a 100-question, multiple-choice test covering the natural history of all local species of wildlife, as well as their emergency care, nutrition, restraint techniques, wound management, parasitic infections, epizootic and zoonotic diseases, and release criteria.

  A federal permit allows a person to rehabilitate all native birds. Obtaining the permit entails writing an autobiographical summary of your avian expertise; describing what your birds will be fed and how you will obtain specialized foods; submitting diagrams and photographs of your facilities; and gathering letters of recommendation from what seems like every person on the planet who has ever uttered the word bird.

  The solution: For the state test, I studied. In most areas, wild opossums live two to three years. The only sure way to kill the eggs of the raccoon roundworm is with a blowtorch. Feed kitten milk replacer to orphaned bobcats and goat’s milk to orphaned white-tailed deer. For the federal permit, I wrote. I called. I asked people to say nice things about me. I sent out stamped, self-addressed envelopes. I rolled my eyes. I said bad words.

  In mid-September, the kids and I sat on our deck listening to the clatter of hammers against wood. As the flight cage rose in the distance the kids casually tossed me state license questions, proving once again that young brains absorb information far more quickly than older ones.

  “What do you call the underside of a turtle’s shell?” asked Mac.

  “The carapace,” I replied.


  “Wrong!” crowed Mac. “It’s the plastron!”

  “Darn!” I said. “Well, at least I know that a rabbit isn’t a rodent.”

  “But that one’s easy,” said Skye, sighing deeply. “Everyone knows that rabbits are lagomorphs.”

  The flight cage was more solid than my own house. It was a 400-square-foot enclosure separated by a plywood wall into two rectangles twenty feet long, ten feet wide, and eight feet high, covered by an A-frame roof and lined with ethereal green mesh. In the late afternoon sun it looked magical, a place where a broken bird could learn to fly again, a temporary refuge created by a crew who were craftsmen by day and artists and musicians at night. It had just come into the world, but already its karma was good.

  Where there was a problem, there was a solution. I was confident that when our doors opened in the spring, everything would go according to plan.

  Chapter 4

  GENESIS

  chaos theory (ka’os’ the’e-re): a theory that complex natural systems obey rules but are so sensitive that small initial changes can cause unexpected final results, thus giving an impression of randomness. (MSN Encarta)

  There are many areas to which chaos theory applies. In wildlife rehabilitation, it rules.

  For the single, home-based rehabilitator in particular, one’s sensitive complex system hinges on the ability to set limits. As both logic and my longtime rehabber friends told me, one has a finite amount of space, a finite amount of energy, and a finite number of hours in the day. Small changes in one’s limits can cause unexpected results, especially when they become the norm instead of the exception.