There is something primal that is triggered inside me whenever I see a baby outside its nest, crying for its mother.
I’ve been trying to save little animals since I was a kid, and having to choose between letting go and stepping in still tortures me every time. We weren’t there for the occasion, but our next-door neighbor, the one with the much-feared outdoor cats, confirmed that the bird took off. Only once have we seen our rescue bird (a mourning dove) heal and grow big enough to fly away on its own. Most recently, for the mockingbird, we repurposed an old hanging planter. The first was made from a small cardboard box that once held Persian cucumbers we used it to house a tiny cardinal instead. Three times in the last three years now, we have created makeshift nests for these fallen birds. We make sure the parents are still around - both mockingbird parents, we’ve noticed, are involved in the care of their offspring - and we worry when we hear the bird cry repeatedly outside our bedroom window, and neither parent comes to it as often as we think they should. So, we pick it up gently and look for a soft surface, with shade. Besides, there’s a slim chance that we can help keep it alive for a few more days, until it learns to fly. The creature becomes the center of our family: Should we take turns standing watch so the neighbor’s cats don’t get it? Or should we just let it be, and see what happens? No, we couldn’t possibly do that I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. This happens every spring: At least one baby bird falls from the sky, my family is heartbroken, and I become obsessed with trying to keep the chick alive.
I don’t pretend to be a savior, but I knew I needed to do something. Perhaps it’s just instinct - the same emotion that kicks in whenever we witness the pain of others. But as I stood over this defenseless little bird, wondering what to do, I immediately leaped from pity straight to obsession. I once read that it’s too easy to confuse pity with love. But looking at it, lying on the ground with feathers so fluffy they looked like soft fur and limbs so awkwardly long they looked out of place on its small body, I couldn’t help but pity it. I tried not to think about the impact the little creature must have sustained when it hit the ground after all, it was still alive, moving and crying for food. This year, it happened to a tiny mockingbird.
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