Monday afternoon, my children along with a friend that was over to play rescued a little wren from the jowls of our cat, Max. The three children became quickly invested in the bird’s survival and made him a little box home and named him Doodle. I was quick to tell them that the bird’s chances of survival were quite slim because Max likely gave him a good squeeze and could have caused internal injury. After a short time, however, the little guy perked up, but still wasn’t flying away and seemed to have an injured leg. I decided to do some research on the internet about injured birds and found the phone number to a Wildlife Rehabilitation centre close by. I called them and they told me that we could bring the bird in. So, we did.
When I called the next day to check up on little Doodle, they told me that he was doing well. He was on antibiotics for his injured leg and was in a cage with five other wrens. They also said that if he does rehabilitate well that we could release him back here. This morning when I called to check up on him they unfortunately told me that he had passed away in the night. This happens to the little guys, she said, partly because of the stress of being fed by humans and possible internal injury inflicted upon by my cat.
My dad would think it’s ridiculous taking this much effort to care for a little wild bird since he grew up on a farm. It is the way of nature, of course. And I did see the slight humour in my driving over 30 km with an injured wren and then him being on antibiotics for goodness sake. But we came to care for the little guy. I didn’t take a picture of him though for some reason. All I have are these two. The one right before we dropped him off and the other of the box the children decorated.
“Doodle the bird. The lucky bird who escaped a cat!”