Here I go again on my own…

Three pigeons and 15 years later, things have gone from bad to worse. It doesn’t have to be this way

Commander Seymour Higgins, in 2011

Commander Higgins

In 2011, we found a little pigeon huddled behind the back wheel of a large, parked truck, a wing hanging low and limp by his side. It turned out he had a fractured humerus — equivalent to the bone that runs from the shoulder to the elbow in our arms.

The veterinarian at the wildlife rehabilitation center we took him to explained that he would need surgery if he were ever to fly again, and given that he was “just a pigeon,” making that sort of investment wouldn’t make sense. She told us that they were going to kill him. We asked to have the bird back, telling her that we would take the bird to a private veterinarian, pay to have the wing repaired, and, if he could still not fly afterward, he could live with us.

We hit a proverbial brick wall.

In conversations with the doctor, her vet tech, and later, the emergency on-call “expert” at another wildlife rehabilitation facility who all tried to talk us out of it, they treated us like naive, ill-informed, and even selfish individuals for suggesting that the pigeon wouldn’t be better off dead; one of them telling us that while it was admirable that we didn’t want the pigeon to die, we needed to consider the best interest of the bird — which, in her estimation, was annihilation. Another reminded us that he was not “native” and, therefore, of little value. Commander was not suffering from a mortal injury and it didn’t matter a whit where and when his species evolved. We dismissed these arguments for the cruelty they were and demanded the bird back.

Commander today

That was nearly 15 years ago. We did opt for the surgery at our own expense, but it didn’t work. Since he could no longer fly, we took him in, and the bird we named Commander Seymour Higgins lives with us to this day. He’s a talkative little fellow who loves graham crackers, warm baths, and sitting in the sun. For 15 years, Commander has had these and more, including shelter, warmth, the company of other birds, and our companionship — things that those who should have been his biggest champion tried to talk us out of.

Then we found Hector.

Hector

Hector

On July 4 last year, we saw him trying to find some crumbs near a pizza place, moving slowly and dragging a wing. My son caught him and drove him to the same wildlife rehabilitation center that wanted to kill Commander 14 years prior. Our thinking was two-fold: no one else took in pigeons, and, more importantly, we hoped that in the intervening years, they had morally evolved. How wrong we were.

After evaluating him, the wildlife veterinarian told our son that his wing needed to be amputated and that he would never fly again. The vet also said they would kill Hector if left there. So we treated him ourselves by wrapping the wing and giving him a few weeks of rest. We then let him fly for short periods inside our house, and when the wing fully healed, our son released him back to his flock. He shot up like a cannonball.

Fenton

Cue Whitesnake — “Here I go again on my own…” — fast forward to this week, and meet Fenton. After having coffee with a friend, I was walking near Fenton’s, the famed creamery on Piedmont Ave. that appears in Pixar’s Up, when I saw the little bird with a wing that didn’t quite look right. There’s an easy test to tell if things are awry with a pigeon: you try to pick them up, and if all is well, the bird will take to the heavens in flight. When they do, you can salute the little flyer and go on your merry way. Fenton did not.

Fenton’s in Pixar’s Up

Fenton jumped to the sky but fell back down, righting herself with the bad wing and then running under a gap in the bottom of a fence to hunch in a little culvert. I looked through the fence and saw her sitting in a corner which was covered with pigeon poop. It was clear that is where she lived and slept for safety. There were no other pigeons around, no mate or flock for company.

Fenton

There are three things you can be sure of in this life. Death, taxes, and that I have peanuts in my pocket. One never knows who one will meet when one is out and about, and the peanut (unsalted) is the universal language of “hello” for squirrels, birds, raccoons, skunks, opossums, and creatures of all kinds. My wife occasionally finds peanuts in coat and pants pockets, the washing machine, the dryer, and once, when she opened the door to the car, peanuts fell out. It’s like my calling card, “Nathan was here.” I created a trail of peanuts out of the gap in the fence, and sure enough, Fenton took the bait, eating the peanut trail out from under the fence until I could block the gap and catch her.

I called the wildlife rehabilitation center to see if they could evaluate Fenton and, as they had done with Hector, return her if they planned on killing her. Fool me once, fool me twice, fool me thrice. They declined, telling us their policy was not to return animals admitted for evaluation. After 15 years, the policy had indeed changed, but only to take a regressive step backward. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, given that animal shelters have erased many of the gains the movement made, and now shelter like it’s 1995 instead of 2025.

We called a local pigeon rescue group to see if they had any recommendations, but they recommended this particular facility. When we explained that we wanted Fenton back if they were going to kill her, and they refused, they defended the facility by stating that it would be unfair to ask them to change their policies, writing that they “can’t be available to alter their triage protocols for each animal.”

Of course, they can. Nothing is stopping them from treating each animal as an individual. Not only can they, but they should. And they should for all wild animals who can lawfully be returned to finders willing to care for them, like pigeons. Things don’t have to be as they are.

Choices

There is plenty of money in animal welfare, with the top three organizations (HSUS, the ASPCA, and Best Friends) taking in a combined $776 million in annual revenue and holding $1.2 billion in assets. The assets controlled by these three groups don’t include the other groups taking in large sums of money promising to help animals, such as PETA, which takes in $82 million annually and has $29 million in assets. It doesn’t include the thousands of SPCAs and humane societies nationwide, such as The San Francisco SPCA, which alone takes in over $50 million yearly and has $113 million in assets, and the San Diego Humane Society, which likewise hauls in over $65 million annually and has $126 million in assets. It doesn’t include all the other organizations that promise to help animals with emotional appeals that tug at the heartstrings and open American wallets, such as this particular wildlife rehabilitation center, which took in nearly $4 million and banked a fifth of it after expenses.

Americans have a soft spot for animals. That has made animal protection groups that claim to speak for them some of the wealthiest charities in the world. And given the sheer wealth at their disposal and the hearts and minds of the Americans they command, why aren’t things better than they are? Why are individual rescuers on their own most of the time? Choices.

The wildlife rehabilitation center’s deadly policy is a choice. More specifically, it is a draconian, violent, and cruel choice. Of course, we declined to take her there. That’s not the kind of people we are.

So here I sit with Fenton, about to take her to an avian veterinarian to see if the wing can be repaired. If it cannot, Fenton has a home — with Commander, Newbie (another rescued pigeon who lives here), and us. It might not be ideal for pigeons, but if it isn’t, it comes pretty damn close: it has warmth, kind people, other birds, safety, space to roam, and… an endless supply of peanuts.