by Terry Masear
“So are you calling about one hummingbird in particular or . . .”
“Well, I’ve had so many around this year, I fill my feeders every day and I can hardly keep up.”
“But other than that, is there a problem?”
“Well, you know, sometimes they don’t hang around that much and then bam, all of a sudden there’s hundreds of them buzzing all over the place, like when it rains.”
“So do you have a bird that’s sick or injured?”
“Well, yeah, I’ve had birds like that before that can’t fly or something. I’ve been feeding them for ten years, so everything has happened. It’s just so fun to watch them but I can’t go away for more than a day because they empty their feeders really fast so I don’t know what I’m going to do if I have to go somewhere or—”
“I’m confused,” I interrupt, wondering if my communication skills have fallen off a cliff. “Do you have a problem with a specific hummingbird?”
“Well, a lot of things can go wrong with these guys so I was wondering what to do if, first, a mother builds a nest where we have to trim the trees; second, I find an injured bird in my yard; or, third, a sick bird starts hanging around the feeders.”
“Marty,” I say with exaggerated patience, “it’s like John Maynard Keynes said about economics: We only have today, so let’s wait until we have a specific crisis to address and then we can panic. So do you have a hummingbird with a specific crisis we need to panic about right now?”
“Well, no, not really. Not right now. But I’ll sure call you if I do.”
“Terrific. Thank you.”
The second and third voicemails are about nests infested with mites, and the fourth is from a bright and articulate college student in the South Bay who has a fledgling, leaves me his number, and asks if I can have Jean call him when she gets a chance. This call signals that the other shoe has finally dropped. When Jean is no longer returning her calls, it’s because she’s so swamped she can’t. I call him back, instruct him on how to care for the bird for a day, and promise to call Jean. The second I set my phone down, it starts ringing, and calls flood in without a break all afternoon.
By five o’clock the weather has cooled off enough to put the cages back out in the late-afternoon sun. After filling fifty feeders I head into the garage to feed the ICU nestlings for the twenty-fifth time that day. As I open the sliding glass door, I notice Rosie splayed on her stomach next to her nest. I reach in to pick her up, but she’s already gone. I lift her out of the ICU, feed the fifteen nestlings, sink down into the chair I always sat in when I held her, and weep. While I am busy crying my pain out, the Santa Monica shelter calls with a fledgling. I assure the officer I will be there before they close at nine.
Fifteen minutes later, as I’m trying to pull myself together and cradling Rosie’s still-warm body in my hand, a call comes in from a monk at the Vedanta Society who is afraid they have an abandoned nest outside the monastery in Hollywood. I give him the usual instructions on how to sit and watch for the mother for thirty minutes without taking his eyes off the nest.
“It requires a lot of patience, but I assume that’s something you’ve been working on,” I say encouragingly.
“Oh, yes,” he agrees with exaggerated seriousness. “That’s definitely a quality we emphasize here.”
Thirty minutes later he calls to report the mother is still missing. From his description of the chicks’ behavior, however, I am almost certain she is still there. So I ask him to recruit another monk to sit and watch. After an hour of back-and-forth calls, a third monk finally catches a glimpse of the mother flying off the nest.
“Everybody has been so worried,” the original monk says in a voice steeped in relief. “I don’t know how to thank you for your time.”
“Well, after the day I’ve had, it would be helpful if you could put in a good word for me with your boss. And I think you know who I mean.”
“Yes, I do”—he laughs cheerfully—“and I will!”
I carry Rosie out to the agapanthus beds growing by the redwood fence alongside the aviary and dig a shallow grave. Hummingbirds’ bones are so light, they decompose within a few days, leaving behind no trace of their short time on earth. While lining her grave with bougainvillea blossoms the same vivid magenta as her iridescent spot, I contemplate Rosie’s experience. As children we are taught that if we fight long and hard enough for something, we ultimately will prevail. In the great tradition of Vince Lombardi’s “Winners never quit and quitters never win,” and popular culture’s celebration of iconic underdogs like Seabiscuit and Rocky, we grow up believing that perseverance and determination will overcome the greatest odds. I have never seen a hummingbird fight as tenaciously as Rosie, hour after hour, day after day, to make it back. But Rosie’s demise drives home a sobering recognition: sometimes we fight like hell and lose. And this is the point at which we featherless bipeds turn to religion and the belief that there must be something beyond the immediate battle. Something within the struggle that takes us to a higher plane until, in the end, it is the struggle itself that carries meaning.
“Time to rest now, Rosie,” I whisper tearfully as I cover her lifeless body with damp, rich soil that smells like something just beginning. And with her glowing red circle reflecting the last rays of the setting sun, Rosie departs over the proverbial rainbow to a more peaceful realm.
I get the caged birds put away for the night and wash an armload of plastic syringes, then I feed the drowsy nestlings once more and head to the Santa Monica shelter. I arrive just as they are closing and pick up the most jaw-droppingly gorgeous black-chinned female I have ever seen. Black-chinneds are the latest-breeding species in Southern California, so the appearance of black-chinned fledglings in rescue signals the beginning of the end. Hummingbird rehabbers love young black-chinneds not only for their exquisite beauty and superior intelligence but for the end of the nesting season their arrival represents. And I could not have asked for a more outstanding example of the species. The fledgling has a bleached white breast, a regal demeanor, and an otherworldly elegance, as if she dropped straight from some pure celestial realm into my lap. If this magnificent beauty had not fallen, she likely never would have been seen by human eyes or appeared as a reminder of the splendor flying around out there that we don’t even know about.
That was quick, I say to myself before thanking the Vedanta monk for his appeal that brought about this instant show of appreciation. The shelter attendant locks the door behind me as I leave. While I’m buckling the angelic hummingbird into the passenger’s seat, an athletic, middle-aged man in a navy blue designer running suit approaches me.
“Excuse me.” He clears his throat hesitantly. “Sorry to bother you, but do you know what time they close?”
“They just closed,” I say before noticing a small cardboard mailing box in his hand.
“Damn,” he mutters, looking around the parking lot vaguely.
“Why? What do you have?” I ask with trepidation.
“Oh, a baby kitten,” he replies, opening the box gingerly. “A homeless guy was trying to get rid of him outside the drugstore.”
I peer into the box in the dim light and see the outline of a surprisingly large kitten, his umbilical cord still attached, lying on a dirty white washcloth.
“Wow, he was just born.”
“Yeah, and I didn’t want to leave him with that guy because, well, you know.” He shrugs with world-weariness.
I bite my lip, because I know what’s coming.
“Listen, I have to be—”
“At the airport,” I finish his sentence.
“How did you know?” he asks with a stunned expression.
“Lucky guess.”
“Well, do you think you could take him somewhere for me? I would really appreciate it,” he says, pulling two twenty-dollar bills out of his wallet and giving them to me.
“Sure, I’ll take him,” I agree as he hands me the box.
“Thank you so muc
h. You’re terrific.” He opens his arms wide in a gesture of a giant embrace while jogging backward to his car, and then he drives off.
When I get into my car, I open the box and examine the newborn kitten sleeping soundly inside. In an odd twist, his color scheme is identical to that of the female black-chinned, with a bright white chest and blackish-tan cape extending down his head and back. This time I don’t have to call anyone for advice, because I know cats inside and out. I drive him straight home, feed him formula that he sucks down with a hearty appetite, call a young couple who do kitten rescue and whom I have run into a few times while walking my Abyssinian cat around the block, and arrive with the kitten at their door before ten. When I step into the kitchen, rescue cats of all ages and colors race up to greet me affectionately.
“He’s huge for a newborn,” Jonathon remarks as he lifts the substantial kitten from the box.
“And incredibly beautiful.” Daniel frowns with mock seriousness.
“Thanks for taking him so late.” I hand them the twenty-dollar bills. And then, posing a question I had been asked myself a dozen times that week, I say, “Can I call you?”
After dusting and tucking the exotic black-chinned into a nest in the ICU and feeding the two or three groggy nestlings who mechanically open their mouths more out of habit than hunger, I close the garage door and head into the house just as my phone rings. It’s Jean.
“That’s the longest hour I’ve ever lived through,” I tease, recalling our conversation that morning.
“Sorry,” she mutters, “I had eight people lined up in my kitchen with shoeboxes when you called. They were backed up out the front door. It was like the ER on the Fourth of July around here.”
“And the Fourth isn’t even until next week.”
“Yeah, I can hardly wait,” she says dryly.
“Listen, I have the number of a guy who wants you to call him. He’s got a fledgling that he’s been feeding sugar water all day, but he sounds pretty together, so I think you can wait and have him bring it tomorrow. But I told him I’d have you call him, so can I give you his phone number?” I ask as my call-waiting beeps.
“Yeah, just a minute.” I hear Jean shuffling things around on a desk. “I can’t find a piece of paper. Oh, wait, here, I’ll just write it on a paper towel.”
“Okay, it’s—”
“Hold on, the towel has sugar water all over it . . .” She trails off. “Okay, go ahead.”
“It’s—”
“No, wait, the pen’s not working,” Jean mumbles. “Oh, here, I’ll just write it with this.”
“Three—”
“Wait, oh, I don’t know, I don’t have anything to write with. So maybe I can just . . .” She trails off again. “Hold on a minute.”
Ten seconds later she comes back. “Okay, now, what did you want to tell me?” she asks innocently.
“Jean, have you had a few glasses tonight?”
“No,” she answers matter-of-factly, “I’m drinking straight from the bottle.”
I hang up with Jean just in time to field a call from Heather, who has a fledgling she just found sitting on the sidewalk outside her yoga studio in West Hollywood.
“I looove hummingbirds more than anything,” Heather gushes in a perky, singsong voice. “She looks really great and is so lively. But people were walking right by her and she almost got stepped on. I want to save her so bad. What can I do?” she asks enthusiastically.
“You can bring her to me. I’m in West Hollywood too.”
“Oh, that’s awesome, Terry. Yeah, I’ll bring her right away. But what are you going to do with her?”
“Well, tomorrow I’ll put her in a cage with a drop-dead gorgeous young male Allen’s I got this morning and she can go through rehab with him.”
“Wow, that’s so awesome. She’s got a hot boyfriend already!” Heather squeals. “But do you think she’ll make it?”
“I know she will. I never lose a healthy fledgling.”
“Oh, how awesome, Terry!”
“And after I rehabilitate her, I’ll set her free in a month or two.”
“That is soooo awesome,” Heather shrieks.
“And next year she’ll build a nest and make more beautiful baby hummingbirds just like herself. How awesome is that?”
“Oh my God, Terry, I love it,” she answers breathlessly. “I’ll be right over.”
Hanging up the phone, I glance at the clock. It’s ten thirty and I feel as though I’m teetering on the brink. I desperately want someone to talk to who will understand what I am feeling right now. Someone I can express my doubts and fears to. But there is nobody. Because like me, all of the dedicated soldiers who wake up to the punishing demands of wildlife rehab at dawn every morning are plagued by the same feelings of isolation and despair this time of year. And like me, they are feeling the strain.
Since I have nothing else to do while waiting for Heather’s awesome arrival, I pick up the Tao Te Ching. As I am perusing the pages, I wonder if Lao Tzu ever had a day so long and unforgiving that it felt like a hard week. Looking at the filled-to-capacity aviary looming quietly outside in the darkness, I feel my resolve slipping away as I’m overtaken by numbing fatigue and a gnawing uncertainty about what I’m doing. And of course, the master steps up at this point to offer sage counsel during my moment of doubt: The bright path seems dim; going forward seems like retreat; the easy way seems hard.
I set the book aside and close my eyes just as the doorbell rings. If all of these insights apply to saving hummingbirds, Lao Tzu, then I most assuredly am on the right track. And if my efforts can help lift another feathered wonder from the hard earth to the open sky, I will go those extra miles before I sleep.
CHAPTER 22
We’re Almost There
THE LAST WEEK IN JUNE, ten birds come in, including three fledglings from the Pasadena Humane Society, each of which is perfect in its own adorable way. By July 1, I have taken in one hundred and forty-five hummingbirds and released seventy-seven robust young adults into the wilds of Hollywood. Sixty-five lives rest in my still-steady hands, awaiting future freedom. The Fourth of July, which is always a tough weekend for rehabbers, is upon us. Thousands of hummingbirds fledge the first week in July and, more important, millions of Southern Californians are outside finding them while picnicking, partying, and blowing themselves up with fireworks.
At the same time, overcrowded state-run facilities, most of which take in other kinds of birds year-round, start closing their doors and turning hummingbirds away as they exceed capacity. Dozens of callers report being rejected by rescue centers in their area and having to reach out across the hills, valleys, and snarled freeways to Jean and me. And despite the longer commutes, most Angelenos remain undeterred and rise to the occasion, agreeing to drive their helpless treasures that extra hour, another thirty miles, whatever they have to do. And in spite of our grinding fatigue, Jean, Linda—another true believer stationed in West Hills—and I hold the desperate line through this last hard weekend. We don’t set a limit on intakes, and by this time of year we are always asking one another for an extra cage, a few more feeders, or another box of formula.
The closing of state-funded facilities is the reason I get a set of Anna’s twins from the hills above Santa Clarita the first day in July. I meet Eric, who stumbled upon the pair outside a grocery store near Santa Clarita, in Gelson’s parking lot in Van Nuys on a sticky July morning. Eric had discovered one fledgling trapped inside an outdoor newspaper dispenser and the other clinging to the side of a flower basket near the store’s entrance. When Eric hands me a gerbil carrier with the twins inside, the fledglings look so big I assume they must be another kind of bird. But on closer inspection, I see they are indeed Anna’s hummingbirds, though incredibly large, and not just for their age. I feed them some formula in the car before racing over the hill to Benedict Canyon and back home. When I get the twins inside the garage and open the carrier, they both fly out and perch on the edge of the ICU, crying l
oudly for their mother. As I reach for them, they fly off in terror and circle the garage ceiling in tight helicopter loops. I finally net them and put them in a starter cage—which is too small—before transferring them to a large flight cage and setting them outside with the other beginners.
But the Santa Clarita twins are nothing like the other fledglings stationed beside them on the patio. Remote, guarded, and innately suspicious, they buzz around in panicked circles whenever I approach their cage. Both take to their feeders after one brief lesson, which is a relief because they want nothing to do with me and flee to the back corner of the cage whenever I reach in to fill their syringes. Unlike the friendly city birds that have been coming through my door from the streets of Los Angeles all summer, these supersize twins are truly wild creatures, and their fundamental distrust of me reveals how thoroughly acclimated our feathered urban companions have become to humans over the generations.
The wild twins are also the largest fledglings I have ever taken in. Most Southern California Anna’s hummingbirds weigh about four grams at maturity. Since hummingbirds consume their weight in nectar each day, two fledglings in a large flight cage eat around 70 ccs of formula during their fast-paced waking hours, which means I can get away with filling their two 12 cc syringes three times a day, or every five hours. The still-growing Santa Clarita brothers weigh in at a heavyweight five grams each, and they empty two 12 cc syringes every three hours, consuming 100 ccs of formula their first day in the flight cage. Their excellent health, imposing stature, and impressive wing power give them a dominating presence among the fifty-five fledglings and young adults caged on the patio. As the brawny brothers inhale formula from their syringes, I can almost see them expanding before my eyes.
