Hail in this area can be the size of golf balls- and just as hard. Storms pelt down these rocks and do a lot of damage....to cars, wildlife, anything outside.
I got a call from my good friend right after a storm. Apparently, there was a bird sitting in my friend's yard and she was afraid her dog might hurt it. The hail must have knocked the nest and the bird out of the tree. Well, I asked, is it a baby bird, a fledgling? She wasn't sure. I suggested she try to keep her pooch away from it and see if the mother bird is taking care of it. Mother birds take care of baby birds better than anyone else- a useful tip : )
The next day, she gave me an update- the bird was still sitting there, and she wasn't sure about the mother.
The next day, she reported that flies were laying eggs on him- what should she do? Okay, clearly intervention was needed, so I asked her to bring him over and pick up some canned cat food on the way, and we'll have a look.
A little while later, she and her family arrived with the baby bird in a box- I was thinking about a fledgling- baby birds. They are about 4 inches long, scrawny little things. Sometimes their eyes are still closed; they are weaklings.
Yep, she had a fledgling, alright, but he was NOT 4 inches tall. He had the tell-tale plumes, but he was HUGE- clearly Baby Huey.
I quickly recognized him as this:
He was a hooded crow. Here's a little info about him: The length varies from 48 to 52 cm (19 to 20 in). When first hatched the young are much blacker than the parents. Juveniles have duller plumage with bluish or greyish eyes and initially a red mouth. Wingspan is 98 cm (39 in) and weight is on average 510 grammes.[9]
He was weak, clearly dehydrated, and likely in shock about his whole situation. (Did you read that part about the wingspan of an adult? 40 inches!)
Lucky for me, her husband, Vincenzo, was kind enough to hold him, while we picked out as many of the eggs as I could without over-stressing the birdie. Picking out eggs is much preferable to the next life-cycle stage- yep, you guessed it, maggots.
I had an old syringe, so I fed the little fellow some liquefied cat food, and some water. When he seemed like he had had enough, we put him in a box in the garage. I checked on him a couple of times, and he seemed lethargic. Well, by the next morning, he was anything but lethargic- he was standing up and vocalizing and ready to eat! I fed him, all the while realizing that I could not re-hab him here in my garage. I could not manage to keep him clean, and I was running out of boxes for him.
I did what anyone would do, I took him to the local vet, down the street. I had H and Z with me and we sat down in the waiting aisle. Soon enough, the vet appeared in the doorway and asked me if we had an appointment- there was no one else present and no one in the exam room. No, we didn't have an appointment, and well, ours was an interesting case.
We went into the exam room and I showed her the bird. She was quite flabbergasted. She was making a puffing noise with her mouth and throwing her arms around. She scolded me for picking up the bird- despite his impending slow, grueling death if he were left alone. She told me repeatedly that he was state property and she could get in big trouble. Then she told me I needed to take him to the Public Veterinarian. Being wise to the ways of Italy, I asked if she could call first and let them know I was coming. She was surprised by my request, but started looking up numbers and placing calls. She kept making a "tsk tsk" sound. I just pretended like all was well.
So, in the end, she could not find a number, but she made me a map.
We piled back in the wagon, with Huey in his box in the back. We could hear him scuffling around and crowing while we were driving.
We drove to the place marked on our map. The sign at the end of the street said "Veterinario." It was a residential area, with only one building that looked like it might be an office. The front looked like a creepy medical building- gray concrete, thick glass panes on the windows- possibly a veterinarian's office. It was closed, so we walked around to the back. There was also a doorway in the back- it was very narrow- I had to turn sideways to reach the door and knock. No answer. I had no idea if I was in the right place.
I did what any desperate person with a wild injured bird in her car would do- I flagged down the woman on the moped who worked for the Italian Poste. She was ever-thrilled to stop and chat (yikes), but I asked her where the vet was. She motioned to the building I just described.
With renewed determination, I approached the building. I looked at the sign on the door and there was a phone number. I called it and when a man answered, I launched into my story- all in my broken Italian. Finally, the man simply said, "Why are you telling me this?" Ummm, well, because you are a veterinarian and I need some help. "I am a pediatrician." OOOOOOPS! Dispiacere- I hung up.
When we were younger, my Dad had lots of sayings he would use, "Randy-isms." He would sometimes say, "Possession is 9/10ths of the law." I never understood what he was talking about, and I haven't heard that saying in a long time, but it jumped into my head and became my mantra on the way back to the local vet. I now understand what he meant.
She wasn't thrilled to see us.
When we walked into the exam room, I put the box on her exam table. (Step one of transferring possession.) Sadly, the box had my name ALL OVER IT- so there was no running out of there- plus, really, how fast could all of us go anyway???
Then, I slowly moved toward the door when she answered another call. Then she talked a lot about how much trouble she would be in, etc. I told her I can't take the bird home and that if she would like, I could dump him in her yard and he could die there. (H looked up at me and had little tears welling in her eyes, but she didn't utter a word. I had lots of complicated explaining to do, but that could wait.)
The vet chattered on and on, back and forth (to herself) about this, all the while, I was getting closer and closer to the door. Finally, she agreed to keep the bird! She wanted all my information- name, address, phone, Italian social security number. No problem, I gave her all my info and left with a clear conscience- possession transferred : )
Funny how old sayings pop into my head, but it made me think of another one- for me to be a veterinarian here, without an office or supplies, well, I am about as useful as a trap door on a canoe.
I got a call from my good friend right after a storm. Apparently, there was a bird sitting in my friend's yard and she was afraid her dog might hurt it. The hail must have knocked the nest and the bird out of the tree. Well, I asked, is it a baby bird, a fledgling? She wasn't sure. I suggested she try to keep her pooch away from it and see if the mother bird is taking care of it. Mother birds take care of baby birds better than anyone else- a useful tip : )
The next day, she gave me an update- the bird was still sitting there, and she wasn't sure about the mother.
The next day, she reported that flies were laying eggs on him- what should she do? Okay, clearly intervention was needed, so I asked her to bring him over and pick up some canned cat food on the way, and we'll have a look.
A little while later, she and her family arrived with the baby bird in a box- I was thinking about a fledgling- baby birds. They are about 4 inches long, scrawny little things. Sometimes their eyes are still closed; they are weaklings.
Yep, she had a fledgling, alright, but he was NOT 4 inches tall. He had the tell-tale plumes, but he was HUGE- clearly Baby Huey.
I quickly recognized him as this:
He was a hooded crow. Here's a little info about him: The length varies from 48 to 52 cm (19 to 20 in). When first hatched the young are much blacker than the parents. Juveniles have duller plumage with bluish or greyish eyes and initially a red mouth. Wingspan is 98 cm (39 in) and weight is on average 510 grammes.[9]
He was weak, clearly dehydrated, and likely in shock about his whole situation. (Did you read that part about the wingspan of an adult? 40 inches!)
Lucky for me, her husband, Vincenzo, was kind enough to hold him, while we picked out as many of the eggs as I could without over-stressing the birdie. Picking out eggs is much preferable to the next life-cycle stage- yep, you guessed it, maggots.
I had an old syringe, so I fed the little fellow some liquefied cat food, and some water. When he seemed like he had had enough, we put him in a box in the garage. I checked on him a couple of times, and he seemed lethargic. Well, by the next morning, he was anything but lethargic- he was standing up and vocalizing and ready to eat! I fed him, all the while realizing that I could not re-hab him here in my garage. I could not manage to keep him clean, and I was running out of boxes for him.
I did what anyone would do, I took him to the local vet, down the street. I had H and Z with me and we sat down in the waiting aisle. Soon enough, the vet appeared in the doorway and asked me if we had an appointment- there was no one else present and no one in the exam room. No, we didn't have an appointment, and well, ours was an interesting case.
We went into the exam room and I showed her the bird. She was quite flabbergasted. She was making a puffing noise with her mouth and throwing her arms around. She scolded me for picking up the bird- despite his impending slow, grueling death if he were left alone. She told me repeatedly that he was state property and she could get in big trouble. Then she told me I needed to take him to the Public Veterinarian. Being wise to the ways of Italy, I asked if she could call first and let them know I was coming. She was surprised by my request, but started looking up numbers and placing calls. She kept making a "tsk tsk" sound. I just pretended like all was well.
So, in the end, she could not find a number, but she made me a map.
We piled back in the wagon, with Huey in his box in the back. We could hear him scuffling around and crowing while we were driving.
We drove to the place marked on our map. The sign at the end of the street said "Veterinario." It was a residential area, with only one building that looked like it might be an office. The front looked like a creepy medical building- gray concrete, thick glass panes on the windows- possibly a veterinarian's office. It was closed, so we walked around to the back. There was also a doorway in the back- it was very narrow- I had to turn sideways to reach the door and knock. No answer. I had no idea if I was in the right place.
I did what any desperate person with a wild injured bird in her car would do- I flagged down the woman on the moped who worked for the Italian Poste. She was ever-thrilled to stop and chat (yikes), but I asked her where the vet was. She motioned to the building I just described.
With renewed determination, I approached the building. I looked at the sign on the door and there was a phone number. I called it and when a man answered, I launched into my story- all in my broken Italian. Finally, the man simply said, "Why are you telling me this?" Ummm, well, because you are a veterinarian and I need some help. "I am a pediatrician." OOOOOOPS! Dispiacere- I hung up.
When we were younger, my Dad had lots of sayings he would use, "Randy-isms." He would sometimes say, "Possession is 9/10ths of the law." I never understood what he was talking about, and I haven't heard that saying in a long time, but it jumped into my head and became my mantra on the way back to the local vet. I now understand what he meant.
She wasn't thrilled to see us.
When we walked into the exam room, I put the box on her exam table. (Step one of transferring possession.) Sadly, the box had my name ALL OVER IT- so there was no running out of there- plus, really, how fast could all of us go anyway???
Then, I slowly moved toward the door when she answered another call. Then she talked a lot about how much trouble she would be in, etc. I told her I can't take the bird home and that if she would like, I could dump him in her yard and he could die there. (H looked up at me and had little tears welling in her eyes, but she didn't utter a word. I had lots of complicated explaining to do, but that could wait.)
The vet chattered on and on, back and forth (to herself) about this, all the while, I was getting closer and closer to the door. Finally, she agreed to keep the bird! She wanted all my information- name, address, phone, Italian social security number. No problem, I gave her all my info and left with a clear conscience- possession transferred : )
Funny how old sayings pop into my head, but it made me think of another one- for me to be a veterinarian here, without an office or supplies, well, I am about as useful as a trap door on a canoe.
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