Gavin Feek: What to do with a wild bird with a broken wing

TACOMA, Wash. — “Eat crow,” a popular saying goes.

Crow, being a similar delicacy to “humble pie,” is the suggestion there. A food one is forced to eat when humiliated or proved wrong. Certain cultures have eaten crow, simply because they’re hungry. Though it’s not usually anyone’s first choice on a menu, no matter the era or poverty level.

Crows are also traditionally thought of as spiritual talismans, symbols to guide observers from one realm to another, emblems of the unseen, markers of death … bad omens.

Ravens, which preside in the same bird family as crows, are also known as messengers. Odin, who presides over Valhalla in Norse mythology, has two ravens who fly off and bring home secrets to their master. In Poe’s most famous poem, a raven delivers the single message, “Nevermore,” to an anxious lover.

Crows are part of the corvid family of birds, which hold funerals for their fallen. A crow funeral has become widely known as a loud and raucous affair where birds gather to squawk over a dead bird’s body and take note of any lingering dangers nearby.

On Monday, my family had a crow funeral in our backyard. We didn’t kill the crow. Or maybe we did. I’m not sure.

We found the crow at the end of the Puyallup Loop Trail, which we hiked on Sunday.

About a half mile from the end, my 9-year-old spotted a crow with a broken wing hopping around in the street. As the father of this empathetic animal lover, I knew our hike was over.

“Daddy!” she yelled as she stomped after it, trying to see whether it was injured or would fly away. “Daddy, it’s not flying away; it’s injured.”

Like a good (and already exhausted after managing four miles with two kids and a puppy) dad, I tried to explain how it’s best to allow nature to take care of such things.

My daughter argued that a car likely hit it, as it was in the road. And that a “car” is not a piece of nature. I was about to quip back that humans build cars, and we are, in fact, nature, when my wife suddenly pulled her sweater off and scooped the thing up in her arms.

So we were doing this.

“Yay, Mom!” the kids yelled. On the walk back to our car, I furiously Google searched whom to call and what to do when one finds a wild bird with a broken wing.

My first call was to the Humane Society for Tacoma & Pierce County, but it’s not open on Sundays.

My next shot was Metro Animal Services in Puyallup. “Oh no,” they quickly said. “We cannot take crows. We’re not permitted for it. Any other wild bird, but not a crow.”

When I asked what my best course of action was, they suggested a 24-hour vet or animal hospital might be able to help.

So I called Old Growth Veterinary Hospital in Puyallup. “Nope,” the lady who answered said. “We can’t take a crow, even to euthanize it.”

I mentioned that I happened to be walking with my young children at the time and that we were all hoping to do right by this poor, suffering animal.

She directed me to a wildlife hospital in Kent called Puget Sound Wildcare. But they didn’t want our crow. “We just don’t have the permit for it, either,” they said.

With nowhere to go, we headed home.

My wife dug a reusable shopping bag out of the back of our Subaru and put the wounded crow in it. At that point, the children had named it “Silver.”

Our unaware puppy sprawled in the back with the kids, and my wife sat shotgun with Silver in an Uwajimaya shopping bag. She became increasingly nervous after every bump. “If this thing wakes up and starts pecking through this shopping bag, I’m so screwed,” she said.

“Daddy, why does everyone hate crows?” my daughter asked after some time. “Why won’t anyone take it?”

It’s a good question. One with layers, of course. Why does one hate crows, philosophically? Environmentally? Why have people, historically, declined to help any marginalized group in this world? Quite often it’s due to prejudice in one way or another. And “not helping” has always been the wrong choice.

But I couldn’t go into that then. She’s smart and already knows the world she lives in. And with all that was going on in our little car, I didn’t have the energy to maneuver through any existential crises at the moment.

I put Billy Joel on the radio. “Dad, turn that down,” my daughter urged. “You’ll scare the crow.”

When we got home, my wife put the crow in our cat carrier and placed it in the basement. Then they gave it a bowl of water and fed it some scrambled eggs. It gobbled up a few bites.

It really seemed quite alert and healthy. Until we woke up the next morning and it was dead. I later read that one shouldn’t feed an injured crow, as it could asphyxiate. But I don’t think that’s what happened to Silver. At least that’s what I told the kids.

They cried. I told them that Silver was just too injured and would have died anyway. At least this way Silver felt some love on its last day on Earth.

Or it died in terror in captivity.

I pictured Silver attempting to hobble back to its family, only to be suddenly abducted by us. Maybe Silver would’ve lived on in its murder as some type of flightless yogi, or at the very least died and been allowed a crow funeral with its own kind. And then we meddled with things.

We buried Silver on the side of our house. The kids picked wildflowers and said goodbye. I think I apologized to it.

If you happen to come across a wild bird with a broken wing, the list of wildlife rehabilitators in our area is available here. Or, of course, you can just leave it alone.

“If there are no rehabilitators in your area, or they are unable to assist,” the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife emailed me on Monday, “at that point you must leave the animal be and let nature take its course.”

I read the email to my daughter after Silver’s funeral, and she said, “At least we tried.”

Maybe it’s one more core memory in the bank, or maybe she’ll forget about it. If she does retain anything about the Silver debacle, I hope it’s that something was important to her and her parents listened.

And that’s probably the only thing we got right.