Monsoon rains are nothing new in the Ozarks, although I must admit that lately we have been getting more rain than usual. So it was the year we found one little bird standing bravely knee-deep in water and looking in vain for assistance. Too young to fly and without food source from the parents, all he could do was just stand there with his beak in the air, emitting pitiful cries for help. When it became evident that parental help was not forthcoming, I picked him up, brought him to the office, dried him off, and provided something similar to a nest.

From what few feathers he had, I assumed it was going to be a Blue jay. Since my search for a solution to the problem happened before there was Google, I checked every available computer source. Help came from a university-based search engine with worldwide sources and unlimited information from A to Z. The person who responded to my SOS was a kindred soul familiar with birds and the raising of orphaned fledglings.

Check the beak, I was told; if the beak was long and sharp like a rapier, the bird was likely to be a carnivore. In that case, I could gather insects and mash them and feed it like a baby formula. It was early in the season and the rains had eliminated any insect-based food source.

Check for cat food, the source said; dry cat food moistened and mashed might work. My source told me that he had observed Blue jays stealing cat food from the cat food dishes and taking them to the nest.

By the time I had my beginning information, the bird was dry. He looked straight at me with sharp little eyes. He still chirped piteously. It was easy to understand that he was hungry. I prepared his first meal, and gingerly offered the tidbit with my fingers. He understood. The little rapier beak opened wide and the food went right down to his gullet. I began to get an understanding of sharp long beaks.

Having been successful with the emergency food source, timing was next on the agenda. Timing, my computer buddy told me, was of the essence – every twenty minutes for the first week or so. The nice part was that Blue jays observed daylight hours. I could start at sunrise and I could quit at sunset. If the bird survived the first three days, one could hope for success.

My life was on hold for the next two weeks. I went shopping after daylight hours. Phone conversations were limited to fifteen minutes at a time, and any other activity I was involved in would have to be spaced between feeding times.

The rains ended and some insects became available. Friends and family were pressed in to service. Bring food meant bring bugs and worms.

By the time the second week rolled around, I was certain that the bird had a will to live. His pitiful chirp changed to a demanding screech. He was given the name Cheeps. The moment I opened the door and called him, he responded loud and clear. He fluttered his wings, showing off the little feathers that were coming in.

His beak was always open. My fingers disappeared down his throat and I felt lucky to get them back undamaged. He was still confined to the cage that held the nest. He kept his nest clean. I learned that the nestling backs to the edge of the nest to eliminate a projectile beyond the nest. My source told me that birds do that in order to keep the nest site a secret. I learned the value of newspapers. The little writing desk was covered with newspaper, and "diapers" were changed five or six times a day.

When he started flight school, it was time to leave the nest and prepare perches. It took him a little while to figure out what a wall was. Time and again, he crashed into the wall. But he finally got it. The first time he turned away from the wall and landed on the telephone, I felt like shouting for joy. He learned to fly in the little office, and I learned to clean up three or four times daily. I also learned to cover the book shelf and to close off the computer area.

With May came the yearly exodus of hot house plants from the greenhouse, and Cheeps was given the greenhouse. The camellia was planted in the greenhouse permanently, and so was the cyprus. Cheeps practiced flying from
sunrise to sunset. The moment I showed up, he switched into high gear and practiced diving. He took tidbits from my fingers and learned to catch his meals on the wing. He learned to bathe, although with his first bath the takeoff became a crash landing. He learned that feathers had to dry before liftoff. By June he was introduced to the backyard. He seemed to realize with glee that I could not follow him up into the trees and that he could come and go pretty much as he pleased. He also considered my glass of ice tea his glass of ice tea. He particularly fancied my gold-nib Cross fountain pen. I had left the pen unattended on the table in the backyard. Cheeps the opportunist swooped down and picked it up. The pen was heavy and as long as he was. He rose like a tipsy aviator and made it up to the eave of the house. I had to bribe him to drop the pen. After that I understood that whatever was mine was going to be his, and the only time I disagreed was when he figured out how to unravel the knitting I was working on. Cheeps took off with the yarn and I held on to the knitting, and two hours’ work was quickly unraveled.

Cheeps had his favorite perch for landing and takeoff near the table in the backyard. Besides screeching his request for attention, he had developed a variety of sounds to serenade me. One day he landed on the perch and requested my presence. My husband quickly realized that Cheeps had a present for me, a hornet. There was no time to consult the computer about a Blue jay with an angry hornet. He had the hornet in his beak and was looking for the proper way to transfer his gift to my face. It took him just a little while to understand that I didn’t particularly care for hornets. As I stood there, he transferred the hornet from his beak to his claws. One claw held the hornet’s head down firmly while the other held the abdomen of the hornet. He then proceeded to amputate the stinger. Once that was done, he finished off the rest and explained to me, while cleaning his beak, that hornets were delicious. After that I didn’t worry so much about him anymore.

By the time the leaves began to fall, Cheeps had brought a couple of companions. They were not Blue jays, but they understood that Cheeps had access to great foods here, and they helped themselves to his food, his drink, and his bath. Then came the inevitable day when Cheeps held court at the back fence. From the way he behaved, I knew he was leaving. His buddies left first. He hesitated for a moment, then lifted off and circled the backyard twice and was gone. The backyard seemed so silent. I missed him, but I had known that if I were fortunate, that was how it would end. I had the computer and the office to myself. I e-mailed the person who had talked me through this adventure.

"Did you know that the birds are direct descendants of the dinosaur?" he asked. "I always thought he looked a lot like a mini-T-Rex," I responded.

The next time I e-mailed him, I told him there was a problem in the office; there was a short in the cable between the light and the ceiling fan. He was quick to respond: "Did you check the top of the fan for any little gifts left behind?" We took down the fan and looked at the top sides of the blades. Cheeps had been busier than I had thought he was, and he had left mementos. The fan was old and I needed a new ceiling fan; small price to pay for a priceless experience, although some of my friends didn’t think so. I shared that with my e-mail friend as well. He understood the value of the experience of raising creatures other than human. A little gift came as a result of the adventure. It was a small brown rock that looked a lot like a very small snake. The slip that went with it told me it was coprolite. "It’s dinosaur poop," the note explained. "Consider it your badge of honor." It is the only piece of jewelry I am extremely fond of. I wear it when I have a need to make a statement to the world.