Who rehabs the rehabber?

More on that question later…

“Oh, we’re all in this together because we love animals so much.” This was the gist of a statement made to me Monday when a person brought a barred owl they’d had since Saturday.  Said person works as an educator, claims to have an “exhibition” permit, and admitted to “unofficial” rehab. Would you like me to translate all that into what a rehabber hears in these words? This individual thinks because they are in education and have an exhibition permit FOR ONE ANIMAL, that gives them free rein to rehab illegally, although what little conscience they have left does remind them that “unofficial” and illegal are synonymous here—if you don’t have state and (for birds) federal permits, YOU ARE BREAKING THE LAW by possessing wildlife, even if you claim it’s for rehab.

This ain’t rocket science, folks. If you want to rehab, study for the exam. Take the exam. Pass the exam. Pass the site inspection. Get your hands-on experience for birds by apprenticing under someone with current state and federal permits. That’s it in a nutshell. It can all be done in under a year if you’re motivated enough, and if you truly “love animals” enough to want the best possible training to care for them properly.

I submit to you that anyone who “loves animals” will swallow their pride and DO THE RIGHT THING for that animal by seeking properly permitted individuals to assess, treat and—if need be—rehab the animal. Anything else is just ego looking to be stroked by having all their friends coo over how “wonderful” they are when they post “cute” pictures all over social media of them and their illegally held wildlife.

The barred owl that led to this rant had a broken right leg, right at the hip. This is not a fixable fracture, so the bird required euthanasia. For TWO DAYS it sat in an unlined box, sprawled on that injured side with no cushioning, no support. TWO DAYS of pain that could’ve been ended much sooner had this person not decided their “unofficial” rehab gave them the skills (which they obviously DO NOT POSSESS in reality) to attempt treatment.
​
And then they have the gall to imply “we’re all in this together because we love animals”? Oh, don’t even go there with me. Just don’t. 

And while I’m ranting, lemme tell y’all about this gem of a call: woman calls, leaves a message that her children have found a bird in the yard and she’s willing to bring it. Now, keep in mind my outgoing voicemail message CLEARLY states this may entail a one-way trip of up to two hours and if the caller isn’t willing to do this, to hang up now. I call back; woman says bird is on its side with some kind of “pink bubble gum” looking stuff coming out. My immediate thought is more than likely a cat-attacked bird whose internal organs are ripped out. I text her the address; five minutes later she calls back and says she thought I was closer (from her location, it’s about a 25-minute drive, people…) and could just I tell her how to care for the bird? After a moment of shocked silence, I explained that she’d just said it was injured so no, I could NOT tell her how to care for a bird with injuries I’d not even seen, and further, it was a violation of the terms of my permits to give that sort of care advice to the public. And she hung up on me.

Way to go, woman—what a sterling example to set for your children: Mama’s too damn sorry to drive for 25 minutes to get help for an injured bird; so we’ll sit here and watch it die instead, probably whining the whole time about how “mean” that rehabber was—and I’m willing to bet she posted all over social media about what a “good” person SHE was for trying to “help” this bird. Yeah, right…
​
Two Carolina wrens survived the deaths of one of their parents and two sibs; the finder said the parent was dead outside the nest and two babies were dead inside the nest. Thus far, these two are doing well, given the stress they’ve experienced.

​When this mockingbird nestling was found in a driveway with no nest in sight, the finder attempted to move the baby to a safer location in hopes the parents would hear its cries. When that didn’t work, she brought him to LWR, where he struggled to overcome one setback after another. He put up a good fight but ultimately lost his battle, poor baby.

​And four more Carolina wrens came in after the finder noticed that the parents hadn’t been to the nest for over 12 hours and the babies were getting increasingly vocal as their hunger levels ratcheted upward. She did an excellent job of following my care instructions until I was done at the doctor’s office with my back so she could get them to LWR. They were close enough in age to be placed with the other two, so now there are six little gaping beaks at every feeding.

​Last weekend, colleague Steve Hicks of Bubba & Friends had a young Mississippi kite come in, slightly older than the MIKI currently at LWR. This MIKI was rail thin and on shaky ground, so Steve called to see if I’d place him with my MIKI once he had him stabilized enough to be transferred. Since LWR is about 100 miles south of Bubba & Friends, that’s 100 miles the bird won’t have to travel when migration starts, and my MIKI needed a buddy, so…he arrived Thursday and promptly settled right in.

​Late Friday a young red shoulder came in from Animal Control in a neighboring county. The volunteer transporters who brought him said the AC claimed he had a broken leg. An intake exam revealed no fractures anywhere, just a rail-thin bird with the beginnings of frounce. I started treatment immediately and by Saturday morning he was improved enough to inhale a small mouse. 

​The red shoulder releases were delayed by my back issues, so the red tails are also still in the mini-pen. The brown thrasher went into the songbird flight long enough for me to be sure he was flying well and eating enough to be okay on his own and was subsequently released—no photos, since I open the “escape hatch” so songbirds can self-release as they feel confident enough to leave, and I wasn’t up to the quick movements required to get photos in the songbird flight.

​The wood ducklings continue to thrive. The oldest, who was an “only” for so long, is maturing rapidly and doesn’t have long before he’s ready for release. 

​The vultures visited twice this week, once as a team and once individually, so that was a pleasant surprise. I miss those rascals!

​And that brings us full-circle to the question that began this week’s update: Who rehabs the rehabber? The answer is no-damn-body. We don’t have days off, sick leave, “mental health” days and all that stuff for sissies. We work through illness, pain, exhaustion, death in the family—whatever—because the vast majority of us are home-based and have no staff…and are uncomfortable for numerous reasons about having people we don’t know well spend 12 or more hours in our homes caring for “our” critters, so we tough it out, suck it up and continue to ruin our health. This is why so few people last more than three or four years in wildlife rehab: their mental, physical and often financial health is in tatters by that point. I’d go so far as to say that only those of us who’re already pretty severely warped from the outset survive more than five years as rehabbers. (And yes, I’m still having back spasms; yes, I’ve seen a doctor; yes, I’m on meds; no, they’re not proving particularly effective, aside from making me pissier than usual; and yes, last week was hellish as a result, and this week’s not lookin’ too promisin’.)