Happy landings

I was mowing in the backyard a couple of weeks ago – better described as haying – when a mourning dove flopped out of the tall grass ahead. At first, I figured it was a mother feigning injury to lead me away from a nest. Any child of the prairie has seen that maneuver.

When I made another round with the mower, the bird was still there, dragging it's left wing. He was so weak, I was able to easily pick him up. I know, I know, the experts will tell you to just let nature take its course.

Earlier this year I found a hawk with a broken wing and reported it to Game & Fish, and to be candid, the officer seemed disinterested and irritated by the call. I mean, birds die every day.

Mourning Doves have a mortality rate of 75% in their first year and 60% after that. Circle of life, law of the jungle, survival of the fittest. Everyone knows wind towers are giving birds cancer daily. Can't save them all, right?

But I love birds and I have enough feeders in the yard to qualify as a professional bird caterer. The other day, I counted 15 goldfinches. Some days it looks like a tree full of parakeets. I managed to attract Baltimore Orioles for the first time this year. Significant because the Orioles are my favorite baseball team for reasons I am unable to articulate. After all, Brooks Robinson is 83.

So, with what turned out to be a serious, roof-thumping hailstorm on the horizon and with Red-tailed Hawks circling, I brought the dove to the front steps and put him in a cardboard box to soothe my conscience as much as give him a chance. I didn't expect it to end well, but I had to try. The wing was raw at the shoulder, but I couldn't feel any broken bones.

Within a couple of hours, he was drinking thirstily and a while later, chomping birdseed. Unusual for wild birds who are too frightened in captivity. I gave him grass bedding, added calcium grit to his diet, and after a few days transferred him to an old birdcage that I placed in the laundry room. As often as I do laundry, he wouldn't be disturbed much.

However, the laundry room is also home to the pet dishes, and I'm sure it was disconcerting for the young dove to hear a cat meowing for breakfast each morning, but at the old age of 15, Squirrel is only interested in food that doesn't move.  

As the days went on, Kevin, as India named him holding his damaged wing into place. One day, I saw another dove on the clothesline and wondered if she was looking for Kevin. After a week, our guest was eating ravenously, and when I'd inadvertently startle him, his flapping seemed stronger each time.

Eleven days after the rescue, I took Kevin into the yard. I had this awful vision of him crashing and flopping to the ground. All bird doctors are pessimists and for good reason. Kevin blinked with bright eyes and cocked his head as I opened the door, but he just paced the floor of the cage, keeping an eye on me all the while I softly encouraged him to fly. He seemed to be contemplating his options.

Finally, he flashed out of the opening, flying swiftly, straight and true, to a small maple tree in the yard, where he perched hidden behind a canopy of emerald leaves. I got a lump in my throat. And exhaled.

My bedroom window opens to the shelterbelt behind the house. The birds that live there are seasonal alarm clocks. Pheasants cluck in the fall, and prominent among the summer songs is the soothing coo of the Mourning Doves.

I'm glad there's one more in the choir.

© Tony Bender, 2020