J.R. Johnson

I woke to a robin. 

First thing this morning, I glanced out the window and frowned. An odd little lump sat by the back tire of Mr Man’s car. My eyes aren’t great on the best of days and less so at 6:30 in the a.m., so I had to squint a little before I understood what I was seeing.

Juvenile robin. Not moving. Or… scratch that. Moving oddly.

Hop, shuffle, hop. Shuffle, hop, shuffle. Not going anywhere fast.

It looked like a wing problem, then I realized that it could be a leg problem and the wing was extended for balance.

I conducted a bit of research via the Ottawa Valley Wild Bird Care Centre, a great place that has been helping birds in the area for decades. They took in a mourning dove that hit our back window about a week after we moved in. (Turns out that spring sun renders the living room windows effectively transparent unless you add little stickers to the panes. The Center even gave us a number so we could track the bird’s progress. You’ll be happy to know that while it had a broken wing and pelvis, after months of treatment it recovered and was released with a flock of other doves. So it wouldn’t be lonely.)

Since we’re on the topic, here’s my related story about birds and window strikes: Things I Learned Today, or, Sometimes They Fly Away

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Fledgling birds, including robins, often find themselves out of the nest and still learning to fly. That is to be expected. 

If you are unsure if a fledgling is being cared for by its parents, watch from a distance for at least two hours…

The Center was closed anyway so we waited. The bird moved a little, then a little more. The leg still looked odd, though, so we decided it might be time to try to coax it into a comfortable and well-ventilated box and go visit the doctor.

Um, no.

The bird’s wings were working just fine. It wasn’t flying very far but it was flying, and not at all interested in taking a ride to our friendly neighborhood wildlife rehabbers.

The activity was encouraging, actually. The robin flitted. It hopped. It hid under a giant bush. What to do?

Not much. Short a Wile E. Coyote-style net and lots of dramatic, stress-inducing flailing around, there weren’t a lot of alternatives. I edged a little dish of water under the bush and backed away. 

We’ll keep an eye out for the bird and try again if it appears to be in distress, but for now, nothing more.

Sometimes there aren’t many options, and while I lean toward action, sometimes the best thing to do is nothing at all.

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