During the process of completing my FVP, I think I have become the ultimate mother figure. Well…A mother figure to about fifteen to twenty (depending on the day), screaming, filthy birds. I spend most of my work days in a very small, hot room, and watch my children, catering to their every need and desire. Every one hour, I sit on my tiny stool, and force dog food, or fruit smoothie concoctions down the throats of my screaming, avian youngsters hoping they don’t choke on their microwaved meals.
I realize I’m making this sound unappetizing.
To be honest I have a love hate relationship with this work. It brings me a lot of sorrow, and a lot of joy. It’s a weird mixture of feelings. A lot of the birds that come into the center, die in a day. They’ve usually been clawed by some kind of predator, or have been shoved out of the nest due to birth defects. On occasion it is my own error, which terminates their life.
In the midst of all the chaos, and death, is the small hopeful glimmer, of possible freedom. Freedom for the birds I have worked so hard to keep alive.
This is why the best moments of my workweek are the releases. These don’t happen often, but it’s really special when they do. We pack our birds into little carriers, full of towels and blankets and drive off in the flatbed to an open field, or meadow. At the site we usually just open their container, or sort of chuck them off like an awkward, fluffy baseball.
It’s a quick, but beautiful moment. There’s a rustle of wings, and then they become a speck in the big blue expanse of sky. I feel such a rush of glee knowing that they’ve become wild again, that they don’t need me, their caring mother, to pump food or meds into their tiny bodies.
To quote the great Jason Derulo…
They flyin’ solo.
-Maddie
