But only three weeks into this shiny New Year, it’s becoming
harder every day. The year started with a
literal bang with the shootings at Charlie Hebdo. No matter what your opinions
of the cartoons, or the taste -or lack thereof- the magazine showed by printing
them, nobody should ever die for a cartoon satire. Ever.
Then, as if not to be left out of the terrorist discussion,
Boko Haram stepped up their assaults on innocents in Nigeria. Not to be overly
pessimistic, but I’m sure there will be a school shooting soon.
Boy Howdy! What a way to start the year.
Which is why some of my friends have noticed my recent
infatuation, some would say obsession with my canary chick. Staring at a half-ounce
of newly-born fluff somehow gives me hope.
Some background is necessary. I’ve had canaries since I was a tyke.
Usually one at a time, but sometimes more. Only the males sing, and stores
always guarantee that the birds are male. Once the bird in question starts
laying eggs, it’s a pretty good bet that it’s female.
I always wanted a flight cage where the canaries would
actually have room to fly, as opposed to the tiny enclosures that pet stores
sell, where the best they can do is hop from perch to perch. When I bought a
house, I finally had room and I had someone build a five-foot avian habitat which I quickly populated it with canaries. Some turned out to be
females, the rest were, as promised, males.
Most of the females spent their
spare time turning the food dishes into nests.
Once they rip up enough newspaper to line the feeder, they hop in
and start laying eggs.
For the next two weeks the potential mama canary remains in
that nest with her butt plastered to the eggs. After two weeks, she gives up, hops out and I
throw out the eggs . In about a week the process starts all over.
Only once over decades
of canary stewardship did a chick hatch, and it didn’t last a day. Apparently
that’s not unusual. Canaries are terrible parents. They are so bad that it astounds me that the
species isn’t extinct.
So when Rusty started sitting on a nest in late December, I had
no expectations. Over the years she’s probably laid two dozen useless eggs. And
zero chicks.
On Christmas Day when she hopped off the nest, I reached in
to toss out the eggs. But there was something breathing. It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. It was
an orange bug the size of my thumbnail. But it was definitely alive.
This meant that I had to cook. I don’t cook. I never turn on
the oven except to bake turkey loaf for the dogs or heat frozen pizza. I can’t tell you the last time I used the
range.
Suddenly I was buying eggs and hard boiling them daily. For the
canaries. Even though it’s cannibalistic, the yolks are good for the chick and grown
birds love them. They also got a daily ration of cooked oatmeal, broccoli,
apples and soaked canary seed. A balanced diet.
Every day I braced to find the chick dead. Instead, every
morning I was awakened to the bird peeping while Rusty dutifully fed it. Except
for when it was eating, the chick was completely silent.
Intellectually I know that nature works, but to watch it happen
is magic.
The baby, now dubbed Tweedy Bird, changed enormously from day to
day. One moment it was bald, the next it
had puffs of down and later it sported actual pin feathers.
After two weeks I moved Rusty and Tweedy into their own
space. I‘d read that males occasionally attack fledglings, and I was WAY too
emotionally invested in Tweedy for that.
The move was traumatic for all of us, but everyone survived.
Okay, I needed a slug of Makers Mark . But then I was fine.
The next day Tweedy started jumping out of the nest.
Sometimes he landed on his feet. Mostly he was like a toddler – the feet moved
but the brain had no control.
Yesterday Rusty decided Tweedy was weaned. No matter how much he flapped his
stubby wings and screamed, she was done.
I suppose if he’s big enough to sleep on the perch at night, he’s big
enough to eat on his own. Besides, she’s nesting again.
My mare is due to foal in the next month or so, but I sent
her away to the home for unwed horses. I wondered if I was doing the right thing, but after the experience with Tweedy,
I know I’m right. Birthing babies is hard.
