Adventures of a Wildlife Apprentice

After I decided to become a rehabilitator, I had to think about where to keep the animals I would care for. I had made up my mind to begin my adventure by taking in birds. One has to make a decision which kinds of animals to take in, in order to become a specialist eventually.

And how could I become a specialist if I took in birds and mammals at the same time? I would not have time to care properly for them because I would have to read day and night to gather all the information that I needed.

My first concern was the cages. I investigated how to build a cage and was very discouraged when I saw all those lovely cages made by men -- rehabilitators who probably could have even built houses for themselves. You know these kinds of people who say, "Tell me what to build and I'll do it." And what is really worse: They really can do it.

That was certainly not the case with me. I felt very helpless and scolded myself for not being enough of a handy woman. Then I met Christine, under who supervision I was supposed to work. And I also met a woman who actually had built several cages all by herself. "They do for the purpose," she said. Her cages may not have passed the Master-Carpenter-And-Cabinet-Maker examination, but they certainly passed the Do-It-Yourself test.

I was very impressed and I forgot all about my frustrations thinking that what she can do I certainly will also try to do and that's it. I built four cages and a friendly neighbor built another two, which are very beautiful and big. I gathered everything else I needed (food, nests, and so on) and then started the business.

Since I was a beginner I concentrated on "easy" birds. Easy because even baby robins and starlings are of a decent size, and one must not fear so much that one breaks the little things in half by just touching them. I was for that reason terrified of baby finches and the idea of feeding them with a syringe. I could not understand how one ever could get food down these tiny throats. After I watched Christie feed them I was shocked by the sight of the food shining through their delicate skin. You could literally see where the food went.

With the starlings and robins I felt pretty secure. Robins are gentle, quiet and patient with my handling them. The starlings are quite a different breed. They were like mischievous children finding out about a parent's weakness immediately. There was not one starling all summer long that did not escape out of his cage and fly around in the solarium where I keep the birds. The robins never did.

Despite the fact that nobody seems to like starlings, I admire them. They are simply highly intelligent birds. They are also courageous and even have a sense of humor. Because of their intelligence they are a challenge for a rehabber, because they show their smartness and don't thank you every minute on their knees that you have rescued them.

I remember hard times, when I had five of them at the same time. Three of different ages were in one nest and the other two siblings in a nest of their own. The three taught each other all the mischief and tricks you can think of. The oldest one was the ringleader -- the others would cheerfully imitate him.

For instance, numero uno would pretend to be much too small to even pick up a single little mealworm or act as though he hadn't the slightest ability to hop about properly. But as soon as I believed him and opened his cage just an inch too wide, he would fly through the space that my feeding hand needed to stuff the unfortunate mealworm in whatever hungry beak. I was glad that Christie had lent me a big net.

Quietly I started to hunt my little pretender down, which in the beginning was not too difficult. But the next time he was already wise in the ways of escapists, so the moment I opened the door there he went again. "It is boring to be the babysitter for the little ones," he seemed to say. "Flying is much nicer."

Our solarium has a high ceiling and it is next to impossible to reach every corner with a net. So I simply had to wait until the bird would come down to his friends and sit on top of their cage. (As if there was nothing else for me to do.)

After his fourth break out of jail I separated him from the others. Now I had three cages with starlings. But then he mocked me by no longer trying to fly through the open door. Obviously, that trick was no longer any fun. But he had already done the damage. All the others knew by now what cracking a cage door means: freedom.

It was also very interesting to see how different the personalities of starlings are. None of my other birds had shown their traits as distinctively. I had these five starlings about a week longer than would have been absolutely necessary. Especially the "Master of Escapes," who was happy when I came to feed him, and never really wanted to learn to eat by himself.

He thought blueberries were messy, carrots much too healthy, seeds out of the question, and mealworms just disgusting. He only liked a special kind of soaked dog food and hated any other brand. Now and then he would accept a mealworm beetle, if nicely offered by hand.

Two other starlings, who were about two weeks younger, seemed to eat nothing else except mealworms. Whenever I fed them -- about 20 at a time -- I could only count up to three, and all the worms were gone. They felt that table manners were utterly unnecessary. Dinner once served, they just jumped on their prey. I am sure by now they have eaten tons of worms and would not think of eating anything else. Other starlings preferred blueberries. Some wanted to be hand-fed forever; some disliked that.

Robins were very different from these more individualistic birds. With them everything went on quite orderly. They all had the same taste, enjoyed what their companions liked, and did what they did. Not so with the starlings. Not one was like another.

When I built my cages -- having a husband with at least ten thumbs, which he succeeds within five seconds to flatten with even a small hammer -- I thought myself very smart for not building floors into them. Thus they would be much easier to clean. One just lifts the cage and moves it a cage-length over onto clean paper. And voila! No more hassle with collecting the old paper through the cage door. No more heart attacks for my young ones.

But it didn't work out. I had by far underestimated the cleverness of my starlings. They figured out my system very quickly. Seemingly very obedient, they would sit on their perches. But as soon as I lifted the cage they decided that they wanted to hop around on the floor. So I could never lift the cage to its new position, because the birds simply did not move with it.

I had to do what I didn't want to: pull the paper through the cage door while they fluttered around screaming bloody murder and other nasty things. This year I added bottoms to all my cages.

The most difficult part was to take the birds out in the garden to their flying cage. How on earth should I carry them in bottomless cages? There was only one solution: One by one I caught them. So that they might not escape or feel too nervous, I held them in my hand and hid them under my T-shirt -- certainly a time-consuming act, and not without certain risks. I had to change the shirt after each and every "Operation Flight Cage." Next season, I have to find a better mode of transporting them. One thing is sure: The books don't teach you everything. One has to learn a lot by trail and error. Every mistake is a great learning experience.

But one thing I already have learned -- that even the tiniest of birds has his own personality that is a challenge to deal with. When I look through my binoculars at the birds in my garden, I often think I recognize the starling -- you know, the one that forever tried to escape. And I wonder if that robin is the one that took the most baths.