“Why do you do it?”

That’s probably a question every rehabber hears more times than s/he’d care to. Still, it’s a valid question. I mean, look at the facts rationally: rehabbers don’t get paid for their services; we lose time, sleep and money rehabbing; we’re subject to unannounced inspections from our state and federal permitting authorities; we have paperwork to maintain for annual reports to those agencies; people call us all hours of the day and night, year-round; we deal with people whose conduct and ignorance exasperate us; we see horrific injuries that we cannot repair; we lose animals that we thought we’d managed to save…

So…why DO we rehab? I have three stock answers I offer to people, depending on my level of exasperation and my perception of their intelligence level: 1) Insanity; 2) To try and compensate for general human stupidity concerning wildlife and the environment; and 3) To partially ameliorate the deleterious effects of human activity on our native flora and fauna.

I tend to rely heavily on #1 as my go-to explanation—it’s quicker. If the asker seems reasonably intelligent, I’ll escalate to #2. I won’t lie to you; I reserve #3 for pompous, arrogant types who need to be brought down a peg or two and those condescending types who think they know everything and who act like I work for them. I love the blank looks on their faces as they mentally try to decipher that phrase!

And then there are those who are just so clueless I don’t even know where to begin ranting about them—those types, I don’t even offer an explanation to. I try to talk to them as little as possible while I retrieve the wildlife needing my attention. One such example comes from this past week:

A caller says he has an unspecified hawk at a gas station in town. The hawk was hit by an 18-wheeler, and the caller hems and haws about actually TOUCHING the poor, injured bird to get it to me. Rehabber exasperation level: HIGH

I stop what I’m doing—which, by the way, is the editing that actually pays my bills—and head for the gas station to see what can be done for the hawk.

I get there and the caller and a buddy are standing there scratching their butts and picking their noses, staring at this poor hawk—a gorgeous mature female red tail—on the pavement. Rehabber irritation level: HIGH and escalating

THEN...I find out the damn driver who hit her isn't even there; he left Frick and Frack to deal with her. And it's actually a good thing he's not there at this point, because the doofus who called me says the absent driver hit her in SAVANNAH. That's 100 miles away from our current location. He drove ONE HUNDRED MILES with this injured RT plastered to his grille and it never occurred to his dim little brain to stop and remove her and see how bad the injuries were—and I suppose that was actually a good thing, since if he had, she might have been dumped by the road to die, given his obvious lack of concern for her welfare. Had dumbass driver actually been present, several of my local friends might have been pooling resources to go my bail…at the very least, he would have gotten a severe and quite profane tongue-lashing. Rehabber anger level: OFF THE CHARTS

And then one of the big, brave men who observed as I picked up an unresisting, shocky RT had the temerity to ask, “I don’t have to pay anything for this, do I?” Rehabber contempt level: Approaching critical mass

I understand that birds fly out in front of vehicles and that sometimes hitting them is unavoidable, but damn, people—stop and check on the bird; don't just keep driving! I just keep imagining the sheer terror this poor bird experienced plastered to the front of that grille...for 100 miles…

Her wing was shattered; there was nothing we could do. And yes, it sucked big-time. 

Two days later, another caller has a barred owl. In this case, the caller is observant enough to realize that the bird in his yard is just not acting right. He calls the game warden, who gives him my number. In this case, the caller not only boxed the bird before even calling me; he even got the bird to me. Here we have someone who doesn’t piss around when he sees wildlife in need, and I’d like to thank him publicly for his quick action on this owl’s behalf.

To be honest, I’m still not sure what’s going on with this barred owl. Nothing’s broken; he seems to hear and see just fine; he eats well—and on his own. But he just sits in the corner of the box, usually facing the corner, unless he’s eating. It’s too early in the year for West Nile, or I’d actually guess he might be in its early stages. I dunno; I’m giving him more time to see if we can figure out what his issue is.

The downy great horned owl is still a guest; we haven’t managed the transfer yet. Aside from the amused exasperation he generates just because he’s a GHO, he’s doing just fine and eating quite well. He’s not inhaling the food now, as it’s finally sunk in that he has a steady supply of rodents. 

And finally, the youngest flying squirrel opened her eyes last night/this morning (one last night; the other this morning)! She’s eating well and growing nicely—see that tail starting to look like a real little flyer tail?! 

Returning to the question I led with, why do rehabbers do what we do? Our love for wildlife, plain and simple. We can’t always fix all that’s wrong, but we can ensure a humane and painless death for those we can’t fix. And for the ones we can help—well, seeing them return to their natural environment, to lead the lives Nature intended for them…it’s a feeling that’s just indescribable.