The Revisit: Doesn't Everyone have a Bird in Their Earring?

My two cats entered the kitchen in quick response to what their feral ancestors regarded as a quick, easy snack. I knelt down and let them examine the tiny fellow with a few closely supervised sniffs (my scent was now mingled with his), so feline curiosity would have the edge dulled a bit. The cats seemed to grasp the idea that this odd-looking little creature was in trouble and I was guarding him closely. No negotiations!

The baby was going to need food very soon if he was going to last long enough to solve the problem of making a nest where he could rest. I soaked a pinch of wheat bread in warm water and mushed it up into the smallest particles possible. Using the fingernail of my little finger as a beak, I held a baby-bird-sized portion next to his mouth and did my best imitation of a momma bird delivering lunch. I must have had a terrible accent, because he didn't understand a word.

Many minutes passed before I successfully got anything inside that tiny beak, but once it hit his pointy tongue he swallowed it down. The day passed slowly as I chirped and offered food several times an hour, but by evening we were beginning to understand each other. He was responding to my pathetic attempts to vocalize and greeting me with his beak wide open, head wavering eagerly on the stalk of his out-stretched neck.

When we made it through the first night, I knew he had a fighting chance. He slept with a full belly in the heated shoebox next to my side of the bed, tucked under a washcloth. The next morning I purchased a small box of human baby cereal and added tiny bits of canned cat food to supplement his diet. I reasoned that the meat might contain a little of the same nutrients as insects his feathered parents would have provided, while the cereal represented the seed food-group. I was uncertain if I was anywhere near matching the 'food pyramid' for him, especially since I wasn't even sure what species of bird he was. My only clue was that his beak was shaped like a seed-eater.

He thrived and became covered with outrageous looking downy fluff sticking out all directions and pin-feathers on his wings. I decided to name him Gulliver, after the book, Gulliver's Travels . Each make-shift nest I invented, he managed to scoot over the edge and drop to the surface below. I no longer believed he had been blown out of his birth nest in a storm; Gulliver-Birdie was a natural-born, I mean hatched, traveler.

When he was old enough for his eyes to open, Gulliver did a better job of staying put. If I remained within his field of vision, he didn't feel so alone when I wasn’t holding him. This was still as infrequent as he could manage, by the way.

I carried him to work with me in a small hamster cage. Those frequent feedings made him completely dependent. I made a deal with my employer; when I arrived at work I didn't clock in for the first hour to compensate for the time I spent feeding and cleaning up after Gulliver. My boss agreed, perhaps thinking the bird would only live a day or two at best.

My duties were situated in the art department of a printing company at that stage of my career. Galleys of type were trimmed and arranged into pages, stuck into place with a thin coating of sticky wax adhesive. A machine kept the wax melted and ready for the galleys to be fed through rollers. This waxer became a perfect incubator, radiating enough heat under Gulliver's cage to keep him comfortable between meals while I worked.

I doubt that the hour of time I donated each day came close to compensating for Gulliver's presence. The majority of my co-workers paid a minimum of two visits daily to check on his progress and shower him with attention.

Gulliver grew and began to feather out in gray and rich brown, juvenile plumage. He developed the characteristic black bib on his throat and chest as he matured, identifying him as a male English House Sparrow. Teaching him to feed himself was a big hurdle. I couldn’t leave him at home until he ate on his own and I think he knew it! Eventually he learned to pick up his own food and to fly, although he had little motivation to fly anywhere. When he wasn't in his cage (he graduated out of the hamster cage as soon as he got feathers), Gulliver preferred to ride around on my shoulder as I cleaned house. If I sat down to read a book, he would work his way under my long hair and take a nap against the warmth of my neck. I guess that was the closest thing to wings I had to offer him.

My signature piece of jewelry in the 1970's was a pair of large, gold hoop earrings. Gulliver decided those were perfect for roosting. He'd step up inside a hoop, happy as could be. Even though he was a small sparrow, he weighed enough to be uncomfortable on my earlobe. I compensated by tilting my head to one side until the occupied earring and Gulliver’s feet rested on my shoulder. Oh, the things we do for our children!

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The Revisit: Doesn't Everyone have a Bird in Their Earring?

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