Spring

I was thinking about spring today...

With deference to the groundhog's authority, I rely on the robin to foretell the coming of spring. Icy winds may blast mercilessly through my barren yard, but when the first robin appears in the garden, I know it's spring. Joyfully, I welcome the season like a long-lost friend, cheered by the knowledge of certain warmth soon to burst over my world, and the memory of a robin named Bob.

My affair with Bob began on a warm summer evening ten years ago. While preparing dinner in the kitchen, I heard a beastly ruckus and looked out to see a neighborhood cat scurrying down our driveway, bird in mouth, desperately trying to dodge the beaks and claws of two enraged robins. In tandem they swooped and squawked until finally the cat lost her grip -- or perhaps her nerve -- and dropped the bird. As I admonished the cat to mind her manners in my yard, she slunk around the corner. As my husband admonished me to let nature take its course, I hurried down the driveway.

The bewildered bird sat upright, spit-soaked and trembling, while the two defending robins continued to circle and chatter anxiously. Asserting my place in nature, I scooped up the bird and walked to a neighbor's yard where we'd earlier discovered a robin's nest. The pair of agitated robins soon appeared, so we carefully placed the bird on a branch near the nest. The little bird sat quietly for a while, blinking, then began to make small peeping sounds. The two adults chirped and flapped about nearby. With high hopes, we went inside.

In the morning we were pleased to discover the bird alive and well in the tree, but by afternoon it was clear that the robins had abandoned the chick. And so began our attempts to foster the avian orphan. Once his feathers dried, he didn't look quite so small, and his tentative twittering had advanced to emphatic chirps. No doubt about it, he was hungry.

We quickly converted a hamster cage into a suitable sanctuary, complete with decorative dogwood branches, fresh water, rocks, dirt, and a sprinkling of bird seed. Hopping about his new home, the bird seemed curious but less than impressed. Eventually he retreated to a high branch and resumed his calls. Undeterred, we offered him some fresh greens, berries, and apple, but he ignored it all. He withdrew further, closing his eyes and ceasing his cries. Now somewhat desperate, we dug through the garden soil in search of worms. With hope and some tweezers, we dangled the choicest specimen before the bird. With little hesitation, he ate it. Delighted by our success, we filled a dropper with water and presented it to him. He drank. Jubilantly we offered worms and water until he'd had his fill.

That evening we moved the cage to my yard and nestled our charge on the sheltered patio by my bedroom window. I went to sleep feeling anxious about the bird surviving the night, but my fretting came to an abrupt halt at 3:30 a.m. With the faint light of dawn barely visible on the horizon, he began chirping very loudly. With a few mumbles about early birds and worms, my husband urged me to tend to our noisy guest.

The next night I covered his cage with a heavy towel, hoping to stall his knowledge of the coming dawn. My effort earned me an extra half-hour of sleep that night, so I moved the cage beside the garage for the rest of his stay. Days, then weeks passed with the neighborhood supplying plenty of worms, encouragement, and advice for our feathered friend. Somewhere along the way we named him Bob.

Despite the odds, Bob grew healthy and strong. We set him free at a spacious tree-lined park, relieved to see him safely on his way and reasonably certain he wouldn't meet with the neighborhood cat again.

Last week, on a cold but clear morning, we saw the first robin in our yard. The groundhog and the calendar may tell me that spring is on its way, but I know it's true when I hear it from Bob.