Chapter 4
FOUR
“I’ve got something exciting for you.”
I glance up from the computer where I’m writing notes on a routine dog checkup and vaccination to see Danielle, one of the vet techs, approaching me with a grin.
“Yeah?” I ask as I type the last line, curious but cautious. “Exciting” could mean a lot of things in this line of work.
“A bird with a broken wing just came in,” she says.
Now she has my attention.
I swivel in my chair to face her, and Danielle chuckles at my sudden interest.
“It’s been a little while since we had something a little more exotic and wild,” she says. “But this one was found in the woods, so I figured you’d be excited.”
“Not for the poor bird,” I reply with a chuckle as I push to my feet. “But… yeah.”
Danielle laughs, motioning towards exam room three. “He’s waiting in there.”
“The bird?” I ask, confused why they’d put a wild bird in an exam room rather than take it straight to the back .
“No.” She shakes her head with a look of amusement. “The guy who brought it in. He wants to stay.” She then shrugs and takes a folder one of the other techs hands her. “Have fun,” she calls over her shoulder before she heads into another room.
My eyes slide to the closed door of exam room three. That’s weird. We sometimes get people bringing in injured birds and various other wildlife here since I’m the only wildlife and exotic pet vet in this area. But they never stay…
But I shrug it off and head for room three. While I love working here and treating all animals… wildlife is my real passion, and is far more interesting than routine checkups for cats and dogs.
I knock on the door and push it open to see a guy around my age, probably in his late twenties, standing at the exam table, staring intently at a small bird wrapped snugly in a jacket.
“Hi,” I say, offering a smile as I close the door behind me. “I’m Dr. Walsh.”
His eyes flick up to me for a split second, before immediately dropping back to the bird. “I found her while I was hiking,” he says quickly. “She was sitting on the ground when she should have been high in the trees. But she wasn’t and I heard her call then saw her wing. I wrapped her in my jacket and brought her here because she needs to be fixed.”
I nod slowly, taking in the urgency in his voice and the way he doesn’t take his eyes off the bird. I pull up the intake notes on the computer but quickly realize there’s no need, since he just covered it all. “Ok,” I say, stepping closer. “Let’s take a look.” Then I chuckle at the little bird bundled up so comfortably in his jacket. “She looks comfy.”
His eyes dart up to me again, then quickly back to the bird. He gives a stiff nod as tension radiates from him. It looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, but at the same time, he can’t seem to leave the bird’s side.
I gently adjust the jacket to examine her wing and smile as I get a good look at her. “I like these plump finches. She’s a big one.”
“A Pine Grosbeak,” he says immediately. “The largest finch in North America.”
My smile grows and I glance up at him again. “Often called a mope here in Newfoundland, for being so tame and slow-moving,” I add.
His eyes suddenly snap up to meet mine, and it’s like a light flickers on behind them. The emerald green of his irises seems to brighten, and he even stands up straighter. “They are slow,” he agrees, his voice now stronger and more confident. “They hop sluggishly between branches to nip fresh buds and needles, and sometimes they do grab fallen seeds on the ground. But they nest in high elevations, close to the trunk to remain hidden in dense vegetation, usually six to sixteen feet off the ground. And there wouldn’t be many seeds on the ground where she was.” His words seem to come easier as he speaks, flowing smoothly now compared to the disjointed, hesitant way he spoke before. “Maybe she was searching for twigs to weave into her nest but she wasn’t even moving at all, not even sluggishly, so then I saw her wing and knew that’s not what she was doing. Or she was and something happened while she was on the ground. Or she fell, but I don’t know if she has any other injuries. I couldn’t check.” He shakes his head and drops his eyes again to the bird, worry entering his gaze once more as his confidence seems to fall away from him.
I bite back a smile as I watch him for a beat longer, his shaggy red hair falling over his eyes as he lowers his head to examine the bird with worry lines etched into his scrunched forehead. He’s awkward, and doesn’t seem to want anything to do with me, but there’s something endearing about the way he’s so concerned for this little bird. And I find myself really wanting to ease his worry.
“Well, we’ll give her a full exam now,” I say, gently lifting the bird to inspect her wing, and check the rest of her out.
As I work, he remains silent and watches intently. And luckily I don’t find any other injuries besides the wing. I lay her back down on his jacket and glance up at him again. “You know your birds,” I say.
He gives another stiff nod, carefully adjusting his jacket around the bird like he’s tucking her into bed. I watch him for a moment, intrigued by how he’s so gentle with the bird, yet so closed off with me. But that little bit I got from him, when he looked right at me and seemed to come alive… I wouldn’t mind seeing that again.
I clear my throat, immediately pushing that thought aside, because what the fuck .
But as I look down at this little bird between us, my heart sinks. Because I know what I need to do for her. And I also know the clinic won’t spend the money for me to surgically repair this bird's wing and rehab her for up to two months.
But the clinic at the conservation centre wouldn’t even bat an eye…
“I also work at the wildlife conservation centre,” I say slowly. “I think it’s best I take the bird there.”
His head snaps up, and his eyes widen. “Why?” he asks in a tight voice.
“Well, this clinic is privately owned, and…” I trail off, not wanting to tell him that I would be expected to put the bird down if she remains here.
“We’re not quite set up here for the surgery and the rehab she needs,” I say carefully. “We’re just better equipped for that over there.” A bit of a lie, since I can and have done avian surgery here… on pet birds. But for some reason I really want to look after this one. “I’m there more often, so I can keep an eye on her throughout her recovery.”
He nods, fidgeting with his fingers as his eyes trail over the bird. “Surgery?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah, I’ll need to place a pin inside the bone to align the pieces,” I explain gently. “Then I’ll use a splint to keep everything stable while it heals. Bandaging alone isn’t enough for this kind of injury.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I can see his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. Just as I’m about to ask if he’s ok, he looks up at me.
“So you’ll take her there? When? How long will she wait to be fixed? How long will she stay? What does she need to do to recover? Will it hurt her?” His questions tumble out quickly, and I can almost see the gears turning as he tries to make sense of it all.
From everything I’ve gathered of this guy so far, I get the impression he’s someone who is fact driven, and doesn’t seem to do well with uncertainty. So I offer him a smile and lean forward to rest my elbows on the table.
“I’ll take her there tonight, and I’ll do her surgery tonight too,” I say, watching as some of his tension seems to ease with my words. “It’s an easy one, and she’ll be feeling much better by the morning. Rehab is six to eight weeks, and she’ll hang out with us in the clinic in a comfy cage to make sure her wing stays immobilized. Once she’s ready to fly again, I’ll release her into the woods.”
He bites his lip as he nods, looking down nervously at the bird again.
“Are you located here in St. John’s?” I ask.
“No, I live in Briar’s End,” he says with a sad, almost defeated tone .
A smile spreads across my lips. “The conservation centre is actually closer to you than this clinic is.” I pause, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest. “You could visit her.”
His eyes lift to meet mine again, his green gaze sparking to life once more.
“Want me to update you on her surgery?” I ask.
He nods eagerly and I turn to look at the computer. “Looks like we don’t have your information in the system. What’s the best way to reach you?”
Without a word, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card, holding it out for me. As I take it, he briefly looks into my eyes once more.
“You can text me,” he says quietly.
I nod, taking the card and glancing down at it.
Arthur Mercer.
Wildlife Photographer.
I smile, looking up at him again. “I definitely will.”