Free Flyaway by Suzie Gilbert Page A

close eye on each other. We filled a large shallow dish with water, arranged an appetizing plate of moistened puppy chow, grapes, hardboiled egg yolk, pasta, and live mealworms, then left them alone in the flight cage.

    Common Grackles
    On the way back to the house we stopped and piled onto the hammock, swinging gently back and forth and enjoying what was left of the sunny and peaceful spring day.
    â€œOh, my God!” came a bellow from the house. “There are maggots in the refrigerator!”
    â€œYou’re in trouble again,” said Skye.
    â€œWait till he gets to the dining room,” said Mac.

Chapter 10
TWEEZERS
    I had sworn not to take baby songbirds.
    The general public tend to be impressed by those who care for big, aggressive birds: swans, who can break your arm with one wing, or herons, who will occasionally try to stab their beak through your eye, or great horned owls, famous for the fly-by scalping, which is the avian version of the drive-by shooting.
    Those birds are a piece of cake compared to baby songbirds.
    Tiny, delicate, and insatiably hungry, baby songbirds are food-processing machines. When they’re hatchlings (just born) and young nestlings (older but still unfeathered), they need to be fed every fifteen to twenty minutes from sunup to sundown. Then they knock off for the night, giving whatever exhausted creature is caring for them—be it avian or human—a little time to collapse before work resumes at daybreak.
    When the babies’ pinfeathers start coming in the feedings can be moved up to every half hour, then the time between feedings can be slowly increased in increments of five minutes. When they’re around 21/2 weeks old, their feathers have opened and they’re out of the nest and perching, and you’re practically on vacation—feeding them only once an hour.
    Since I had two kids and a limited amount of time, raising baby songbirds was simply out of the question. But then the phone rang.
    â€œSuzie,” said the woman on the phone, her voice shaking. “This is Liz—doyou remember me? Dana’s friend? I have a nestful of baby blue jays. I’ve called everywhere and I can’t get anyone to take them and they’re hungry and I’m afraid they’re all going to die.”
    â€œAre you sure the parents aren’t around?” I asked. “How long has it been since you’ve seen them?”
    â€œThe mother was hit by a car,” she said. “I saw it happen. They’ve been alone for two hours and I haven’t seen any other blue jay go near them.”
    â€œI’m not set up for babies,” I said. “Let me make some calls.”
    â€œCan I bring them to you while you’re calling?” she said. “They’re all falling over and I don’t think they have much time left.”
    I hung up and immediately dialed Maggie’s work number. “Maggie!” I said. “I have a nestful of blue jays coming in. What do I do, besides get this woman to drive them down to you?”
    â€œI can’t take them!” whispered Maggie. “We’re getting reviewed this week and there are people all over the place. I have nine babies in three nests, and they’re all hidden in my desk drawers and if anybody finds them I’m going to get fired!”
    â€œBut you have to take them!” I said. “What am I supposed to do with baby blue jays?”
    â€œCall Joanne,” whispered Maggie. “Meanwhile, get them hydrated with drops of Pedialyte and feed them mealworms and that dip I gave you. Somebody’s coming—I gotta go!”
    Cursing under my breath, I called Joanne. No answer. I had the numbers of a few other rehabbers, all a little over an hour away. Nothing. Finally I called Jayne Amico, the Connecticut songbird guru who, at any given spring or summer moment, can have forty to fifty nestling songbirds going at one time.
    â€œJayne!” I said