Just Winging it

status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

I was lolling in bed, enjoying a trashy novel and a break from the arduous nature of single parenthood, when Pooch and his granny reappeared from their New Year’s Day walk, and with news…

Hopping miserably about in a nearby field, apparently unable to get airborne, was a sparrowhawk.

Accipiter nisus

Collins Birds of Britain and Europe states (in a nutshell) – differs from smaller falcons in its shortish, broad, blunt wings. Barred underparts also distinctive. Chief call a chatter. Characteristic flight patterns, dash through, up and over hedgerows; fast low flight through woods or open ground; soaring, often circular glide with intermittent three/four wing flaps; gannet-like plummet with closed wings. Found in wooded country, sometimes villages and town suburbs. Presence detected by feathers and bones beneath plucking posts.

Something to rescue! One of my most very favouritist things…

So Mother and I set off, armed with a bright orange towel and two pairs of very thick gardening gloves – luckily our family’s reputation in the village is firmly entrenched in foundations of eco-eccentricity, so there was little risk that our stake-out would raise any eyebrows.

Cyril, formally known as Cynthia

Inexplicably, the bird was unwilling to accept that we only had its best interests at heart, and trapping it proved to be an exercise in frustration as it beetled bad-temperedly about, niftily evading all attempts at capture.

Look into the eyes, not around the eyes...

Worth bearing in mind when ‘rescuing’ wildlife, is that they do not see it in quite the same terms at all. For them, capture and imprisonment, however gently done, and however obvious their fate otherwise, is simply a prelude to being eaten.

Gratitude is most definitely not going to be the defining point of the encounter. The privilege of getting close to an amazing creature, however, most certainly is.

So after a lot of creeping, lunging and badly-aimed towel chucking (I am becoming renowned for my duff throwing), the sparrowhawk played into our hands by diving head first into some tussock grass. Wonderful animal logic – “I can’t see you, so you definitely won’t be able to spot me! Ha ha h…bollocks”.

Not even enough room to swing a sparrow...

And we had him. Or her.

So what next?

With my father (a rather grumpy Dr Dolittle-type) no longer with us and all other experts incommunicado due to the festive season, we had to fend for ourselves.

Mother came up trumps by hastily constructing a mini-aviary in the spare room, and we began the task of trying to nurse Cyril (or Cynthia) back to health, or at least to keep him/her alive until more professional help could be sought.

The first issue was the feeding. Not knowing how long the bird had been without food, it was important to get nourishment into him as soon as possible in order to build up his strength. But sparrowhawks are hunters, they don’t eat carrion – except for their own kills that they may return to.

The unblinking stare...

Instead I had to catch him, wrap him in a towel and post morsel after tiny morsel of duck liver into the corner of his mouth with long-handled tweezers (without inadvertently blocking the breathe hole under the tongue) and stroke his throat to provoke his swallow-reflex.

All whilst avoiding a thoroughly pissed off and jabby beak, which although not capable of breaking the skin, was very much capable of bruising an unwise fingertip.

Much much worse than the beak were the talons. They only wriggled free from the towel once, but in a flash he had managed to staple both my hands together with just one of them. Very curved, these immensely strong and fearsome feet are rather like fish hooks, and once clenched, very hard to release. It took laying him down on the floor, and covering him with a towel, before I could finally unhook his talons and sort out all the bleeding holes they had left.

Instruments of torture

No wonder a plump wood-pigeon, or a feisty jackdaw are no match for such a predator, with weapons such as those!

After four days we were able to make contact with the wonderful Angela, at the Leicestershire Wildlife Hospital. Her twenty-plus years of experience were apparent as she plunged her hand fearlessly into his travelling box and hoisted him aloft. Testing his wing reflexes by plunging him upside down towards the floor, then clamping his legs and extending his wings while we looked on in humbled amazement.

The verdict? He (for it was a he, although a pretty large one, which had initially confused us) had probably collided with some power cables – sparrowhawks are notoriously careless flyers – and bruised a wing.

He was also in need of a bit of a diet, four days of calorie-rich duck liver and zero exercise had made our little rescuee in a bit of a tubby raptor!

Goodbye Cyril!

As soon as he has recovered, which may be a while as sadly he sustained quite serious nerve damage, we will be called to pick him up so he can be re-released where he was found. Sparrowhawks are solitary and territorial birds, so it is important that they be returned, when possible, to their own territory.

So as I may have hotfooted it back to my Italian village by that point, I would just like to say:

Goodbye Cyril, good luck and fly more carefully in future!

This is Status Viatoris, what an unexpected but wonderful experience – please donate (if you can!) to causes such as these, they need all the help they can get, in Northamptonshire – and indeed most everywhere!

 

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