How to save a life

On a sweltering July afternoon while working from home, my girlfriend Jenna and I noticed residents from our apartment complex stopping to look at something on the walkway.

First, it was a gentleman who struggled to keep his energetic black Labrador from approaching the area. Then a member of building management stopped by, a clipboard and pen in her hands, followed by a neighbor from across the way. They all stared at the ground as if gazing at the depths of an abyss, but ultimately walked away.

And then I saw it. Motionless, on the scorched concrete: a baby male hummingbird with radiant emerald feathers. His entire being no bigger than a blackberry, he didn't fly away as I - a giant from his vantage point - knelt down.

I've always been in awe of hummingbirds. When I spot one in the wild, I'll point it out, likely looking like an orchestra conductor by the way I try to follow their flight path as they dart by. For years, cleaning, refilling and protecting the half-liter hummingbird feeder I hang on my patio has become a ritual woven into the fabric of my everyday life. I've even contemplated getting a hummingbird tattoo. You could say I'm obsessed.

But even though my apartment is nestled within a pine grove, where I've seen dark-eyed juncos, crows, woodpeckers and even owls perched on their branches, it never occurred to me that the pines might also serve as a home to hummingbirds as well. This little hummer, I thought to myself, must have fallen from his nest high up in the pines where his life first began - not far at all from where I spend most of mine. This was my neighbor, and he was in distress.

And so, I gently placed him in the palm of my hand; he fluttered his wings feebly. He was too weak to fly.

When I brought him inside my apartment, Jenna and I created a place for him: a cardboard box filled with shredded paper and a leaf and stem from one of my philodendrons, "Totoro" style. Feeling like an unqualified and terrified uncle unexpectedly put in charge, I fed him hummingbird nectar (a mix of one part sugar to four parts water) from a syringe I typically use to refill the ink cartridges in my fountain pens.

I was worried until Jenna made me realize something important.

"He's not panicking," she said, "and he really likes the sugar-water."

And there's no denying that he was responding well. After taking in a few droplets, he seemed to gain some composure. But up close, without the overpowering summer sunshine, his jewel-like plumage lacked luster and was ruffled; he kept letting out little high-pitched peeps. In between offering him droplets of nectar every 15 minutes, I brushed the feathers atop his head with a cotton swab and removed tiny insects that had made their way onto his body, critters who likely thought they had stumbled upon a soon-to-be carcass.

In addition to leaving messages with several bird sanctuaries and wildlife rehabilitation centers across Los Angeles, Ventura and Santa Barbara counties, Jenna and I upgraded his accommodations.

Using scissors, a wood skewer and some washi tape, Jenna created a makeshift perch on an old shoe box that we lined with a kitchen towel. (I threw in a half-mushed blueberry, just in case.) As gently as I could, I picked up our feathered friend with my left thumb and middle finger and held him over his new perch until his small, delicate feet latched on.

When he finally found his footing, standing upright using nothing but his own strength, he flapped his blade-like wings, the way birds do when bathing. For the first time in the five hours that he was under my care, I heard that audible buzz created by successful, successive wingbeats.

"You've had a hell of a day. You must be tired," I said to the hummer as he chirped at me some more.

So I closed the blinds and dimmed the lights, hoping he'd rest but not convinced he would - or could. But when I checked on him a little later, I heard a faint whistle that rose and fell in dozy cadence. Not only was he asleep, he was snoring! There in the dark, I thought of how very differently his fate could have gone; I thought about how huge the impact can be of even a tiny compassionate act. But mostly I lay beside his shoebox and just listened.

Not long after, the Ventura Hummingbird Rescue called back, and before the sun dipped below the Pacific Ocean, he was safe and in the care of professionals. By all accounts, he's doing well.

I never got around to naming him; I knew that it wasn't my place. But I believe that me finding him was no accident; our paths crossing meant something. This conviction stems from a fact I've held true for as long as I have admired birds: This is their world, too. In the grand scheme of things, none of our inextricably linked lives - hummingbird or human - are little.

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Tags: environment | staff news