"Hello" Starling

I have yet to share the most recent member of our menagerie :) Her name is Starry, and she fell into our lives on Mother’s Day. She’s a European starling whose parents chose a precarious nesting site two stories above our cement porch.

One by one her siblings fell and died—it was awful. When Starry fell, I wrapped her in a towel and expected the worst. She didn’t move for hours, but her little heart kept beating. Gradually, there was movement, and eventually, she was making hunger signs.

My emotions swung from sadness to panic--her nest was unreachable and obviously not a safe choice. She was only a week old and just getting feathers—she needed constant care, and I had as much baby-bird knowledge as her parents had nesting-site knowledge.

I was worried about dehydration, so we used an eye dropper to give her some water, then I accessed the Internet: http://www.starlingtalk.com/index.htm. I immediately read that you should NEVER give baby starlings water, which they can inhale, thereby contracting pneumonia or drowning.

I read further, discovering that starlings are insectivores and can be fed dry dog food soaked in water. We decided to throw in ground worms for good measure. After feeding her, I read some more and discovered that you should NEVER give starlings worms, because they carry parasites.

Thank goodness she survived a deadly fall so that we could imperil her life multiple times.

Finally, after reading ALL the information, I found a dog-food recipe specifically geared to the nutritional needs of baby starlings. I purchased necessary ingredients and combined them in the specific quantities required. Starry is thriving…despite us.

She flies freely through the house now and has become part of the family. We’ll never be able to release her, because we began caring for her during the crucial bonding period—she imprinted on us, not Starlings.

My husband isn’t pleased, but the kids are thrilled. I haven’t told D that starlings can live 15-20 years…he’s not ready to handle that information yet.

An old college prof. chastised me thoroughly for saving Starry’s life—he’d be quite happy if I tossed her to my cats. European starlings are not native to the United States and the bane of bird enthusiasts everywhere. They’re highly adaptive and prolific, interfering with endemic species across the US.

They also help control insects, a fact not taken lightly by farmers. If you view massive flocks of birds imitating schools of fish in agricultural areas, you’re probably viewing starlings.

Our Starry won’t affect the argument one way or the other, because she will never leave our house. But on her behalf, she’s incredibly smart, affectionate, resilient, adaptable and funny…if catastrophe befalls the earth, rats and cockroaches won’t be the only species surviving.

What goes around....

I begged my parents for a cat when I was ten. Actually, I just increased my begging--I’d wanted a cat for years. I also begged for a horse...probably the reason I finally got a cat.

My dad set specific criteria, hoping I wouldn’t find a cat who met them. It had to be a female, it had to be Siamese, it had to be short-haired and it had to be a kitten. Never underestimate a child who loves animals…

We were stationed at Edwards AFB, so the feline pool was limited, but I searched the base paper religiously, finally finding her. I named her Duchess, she was half Siamese and she wreaked havoc on my family for the next 19 years.

Her Siamese yowl woke half the neighborhood when she snuck out of the house at night. She climbed neighbors’ trees and rooftops, yowling because she could never climb back down. She shredded furniture, sprayed urine in the house when she was angry and absolutely refused to be an indoor cat, tearing apart screens and windowsills to get outside.

Her saving grace? My undying devotion (my parents didn’t want to break my heart), and the fact that she was irrepressibly lovable. She liked to suck on your hand or arm, like a nursing kitten. She’d purr, knead, purr…eventually curling up to sleep in your lap like a normal, sane cat. Those moments saved her life…

I understand now the huge thanks I owe my parents for suffering the wrath of Duchess, because two years ago I was blessed with Neo. I’ve mentioned him before…his name is often on the tip of my tongue...pronounced differently depending on the circumstances.

Neo started life with my niece, methodically shredding his way through her apartment. By the time we got him at four months of age, he had quite a rap sheet, but I’m a sucker for cats needing homes.

Although he lacks the Siamese yowl, he is Duchess reincarnated—my house has permanent marks proving it. Neo is also irrepressibly lovable, evident in my daughter’s undying devotion. We once discussed sending him to my youngest brother’s farm—M’s tears on his behalf quickly changed our minds.

Turns out we all dearly love him…he recently disappeared for two days, and instead of relief, we felt terror. My husband finally found him, bloody and bruised—he’d fought something bigger and stronger, losing part of his upper lip in the process.

We risk losing fingers giving him daily medication, but he’s happy to be home destroying our living room rug. He also refuses to stay in the house…either he’s undeniably brave or he was born with short-term memory issues. That would explain his look of shock every time I yell at him for shredding the carpet… No matter what, he’s here to stay, and I’m sure I have at least 17 years to embrace that idea…

Good Night, Neo

Me: Would it be an imposition if I lay in my bed too?

Neo: Don’t even think of moving me…Hey, what are you doing—that’s my spot! Saaaaay, is that pudding??

Me: I’m not sharing my pudding with you…for all I know, you were recently performing a hygiene ritual.

Neo: Hmmm…you’re up here, so you’re not downstairs…think I’ll head down and climb on a few counter tops searching for pudding.

Me: Good luck with that. The pizza’s been put away too. Feel free to drink from the toilet though, we unclogged it this morning.

Life with Neo

I got up at 8 a.m. hoping to see snow on the ground. Mother Nature had the last laugh…it’s raining…again….

I sat down to type, and the cats bombarded me. I think I told you we have four: Padme, Naboo, Trinity and Neo—all shades-of-grey tabbies. Neo is the only boy and biggest presence. He’s almost a year old, and the dogs are the only ones not intimidated by him. He isn’t mean, just hell on wheels, although when he snuggles next to you, purring incessantly, it’s easy to forgive all transgressions.

This morning, surrounded by a chorus of demanding meows, I knew I had Neo to thank. He has a habit of covering the cat food with a nearby rug. Whether this is a statement regarding food quality or an instinctive ritual, I haven’t determined. It completely confuses my older cats though and equally baffles Neo (picture Dori in Finding Nemo). They all know where the bowl should be—they can smell it—but no one can find it. Domestication really messes with natural thought processes.

This is where I come in. Being capable of 3-D thinking, the bump under the rug means something to me, and I find the bowl every time. The cats are suitably impressed, and I enjoy a moment of glory. We go through this every day…I could move the rug, but I’ve learned not to underestimate Neo’s persistence. The cats eat in the garage—access to the rug keeps Neo from finding something else to cover the bowl...like a car.

Pet-Sitting Woes

My daughter and her friend Z, bounded into the kitchen last night, asking if we would pet-sit Z’s fish while he’s on vacation. Technically, this is one of those English language situations where I could legitimately use “could” rather than “would”—self explanatory later…

Without thinking, I blurted, “Z are you sure you trust us?”

This seems extreme doesn’t it? Let me enhance that perception…we’ve had fish before who lived long, healthy lives. They had names, we gave them personalities, they were loved… We also have 3 mastiffs, 4 cats and a leopard gecko, all of whom are still breathing.

Yet, there I stood, rooted to the floor in panic, by the request of two elementary-aged children.

Flashback to a few months ago… Z’s family moved in a few doors down. He and my daughter became instant buddies and spent all hours of the day together.

One particular day began innocently enough. The sun rose…my children laughed and argued…Z brought his praying mantis over…the kids spent the afternoon carrying her everywhere. By nightfall, we were in charge of the mantis while Z’s family went on vacation.

If I had to pick a really cool bug, it would be a mantis. This one looked like a pale, pink flower—very, very cool. We oohed and aahed over her—entranced by her unique appearance—and wondered what kind she was. She refused the fly my daughter caught for her, but we attributed that to change of environment—who were we to doubt the emotional depth of an insect?

The following day, she again refused food and attached herself to the underside of her container lid. By the third day, she didn’t look the same and still hadn’t eaten. I frantically searched the Internet for information, and determined that she was an Orchid Mantis trying to molt.

Sadly, by this time it was too late to provide the proper humidity and other conditions needed for successful molting. We did everything research recommended, but she didn't survive.

My daughter and I were devastated--I felt responsible. I also realized that I had to tell Z… That led to another frantic Internet search and phone calls to every pet store within 100 miles. It turns out that you can’t buy Orchid Mantids unless you have a special permit—they’re from Malaysia. Don’t ask me how Z got his—I probably don’t want to know.

My only comfort? The fact that Orchid Mantids are delicate and hard to raise—in other words, they often don’t live long in captivity. I consoled myself with the knowledge that she would have died at Z’s house too.

A few days later, I relayed the sad news to Z's dad, knowing he'd understand the complexities of an exotic insect. “I don’t understand that at all," he said, "We’ve had her for almost two years, and she’s molted many times.”

Flashback to the present...Z and my daughter are still friends, he doesn’t hold a grudge, and I've come to terms with my guilt.

So I said "yes" to my daughter's request, and Z dropped off the fish last night. I told it fiercely not to die, just as Z casually said, "It's on its last legs." Taking a closer look, I saw the fish lying, unmoving, on the tank floor, covered with what appeared to be a fungus. I also heard the "Twilight Zone" theme in the background.

I’ve decided that our house is where Z’s pets come to die. Not to worry this time though--this is a species I’ve seen at Walmart a thousand times—Z will never know the difference.