Wounded Thrush Welcomes Newcomers to Tigard

I was headed to 24-Hour Fitness, in a rush to burn excess Thanksgiving calories by tossing around the dumbells and power walk up Tigard's Linear Trail when I nearly stepped on a motionless little bird on the sidewalk. A chestnut feather stuck out at an odd angle like a flag saying, "Help!"

It didn't move or react in any way when I moved behind it, stooped and cupped it in my gloved hands and looked it over. I could feel its rapid heartbeat, but there were no obvious injuries. It seemed in a stupor. Not wanting it to become some predator's easy meal, I carried it, cupped that way in my hands, shielding its eyes to keep it calm, walking slowly along the front of the building, staring down into my out-thrust hands, suppressing the urge to respond to the curious looks of patrons I passed at the entrance to the club. (Why didn't I stop and show them what I was doing?) Around the corner in a secluded spot among the landscaping I deposited my new friend gently on the ground.

I watched him struggle for balance on a leaf with those tiny toes, his rapidly heaving body betraying some ongoing inner struggle. Unsure what more to do, I left him there, hoping he would recover. I would return and check.

An hour later, I found him in the same spot. Not a peep nor movement did he make except to blink as I knelt with my cell phone camera. He was still in that impaired state of shock or whatever. Was he ill with some disease? At the nearby Starbucks I phoned the Audubons, who transferred me to Wildlife Rescue. They listened to my story and had me e-mail them a picture of my bird. It took several tries due to a bad connection. I thought it was a chickadee. "I'm not from here," I said. "It's an unfamiliar species." "No, it's a hermit thrush," the kind woman said. "You from Southern California?" "No, Bay Area, Alameda." My girlfriend came and overheard, then wanted a full account. We agreed to volunteer and keep the bird overnight in a box for pickup the next morning.

So we walked back to the rear of the health club with a box donated by the Starbucks manager. But voila! The thrush was gone, apparently recovered. I figured it must have crashed against one of the windows at the club, knocked itself silly and needed a couple of hours in a safe place to recover. (Who hasn't had a day like that?)

I returned the box to Starbucks and showed the manager a picture of the creature we'd helped survive a very bad day. She beamed a broad smile that said I'd made her day. It made mine, too, and April's. We walked back to our new condo feeling like we were home.