The tale of Robin Wood II: This bird has flown - Anne Boulton

The Tale of Robin Wood takes a surprising turn as the young fledgling develops a strong sense of self and some decently splayed tail feathers.
It’s been a whole week, and this bird ain’t shy for nothin’.

His parents have given him up to our care; he is clearly thriving on the fat dew worms we buy from the bait store on the Kingsway.

For the 34 years I have lived in this city, I have never once stepped foot in this store. I always thought, “how curious to have a bait store on such a busy corner.”

Now the proprietor and I share laughs and hunting stories; he asks after the bird, and I after the flashy rubber boots he has for sale. Robin Wood is bringing people together.

With five of us under one roof (not counting the cat, who’s been practically shunned since the bird arrived, and the bird himself), it suddenly dawns on me that I am surrounded irrevocably, by the male species — men, boys, cat and birds.

We all share the role of “father” to Robin Wood. He tilts his feathered head to each of us as we approach to check on the cleanliness of his nest or to offer him a ground beetle.

The words, “Hey, Bird” are music to his ears, and he responds in kind with a friendly chirrup.

Robin’s claim to us is growing stronger by the hour, and we feel equally committed to him. There is a book called “Sharing a Robin’s Life” in which the writer shares her story of how she saved a fledgling.

This bird decided she would prefer to stay on with the author. Like, she never left.

The author gives account of stealing eggs from another nest so her own broody bird can try her hand at motherhood.

This thought fills me with a kind of pang. Of what? Self doubt? Disbelief? What does she mean “never left”? Suddenly Robin Wood is a gangly teenager that demands money on weekends and eats us out of house and home.

Never leave? I am filled with what can only be called anxiety. We’ve got to get this bird on his own two feet and out the door.

No more dew worms dropped carefully into waiting beaks. This bird was about to realize that growing up is a two-way street.

So the regime changes: every morning, we bring Robin outside for his daily calisthenics. I garden and he forages. If Orson or Harrison are in charge, they gently toss him skyward and he’ll flap his nascent wings furiously until he lands on a suitable perch.

All of us are keen to see Robin develop in such meaningful ways. Thinking like birds, we try and understand what he needs — to find food on his own and to perfect his ability to fly.

But when Robin begins to find perch on the heads of our neighbours, or fearlessly on the back of the cat, we know we have to take some serious action.

Stay tuned for the final installment of The Tale of Robin Wood.

Anne Boulton is an avid gardener who lives in Sudbury. Visit her blog at greenboots.ca or contact her at [email protected]