Meet Bumpy

This is Bumpy

[Note: I wrote this when it happened back in October, but never posted it.]

Mothering boys is an adventure. Life is bigger, louder, faster, and messier than I ever thought it could be. But every now and again, things get very quiet, very small, and very slow ... even if only for an afternoon. That happened to us last Tuesday.

On Monday, we discovered that a woodpecker had gotten stuck in our garage. He kept flying from vertical perch to vertical perch as close to the ceiling as he could get, and each time he crossed the garage he bumped his head on the ceiling. So my boys started calling him Bumpy.




We tried to lure him out with food, water, a nice vertical perch (a tree branch stuck in the top of a baseball tee) just outside the garage door, but to no avail. He could not figure out how to get out. So he flew ... garage door ... BUMP ... bike rack ... BUMP ... garage door ... BUMP ...

After the kids got in bed, I checked the garage and lo and behold ... no Bumpy! He'd figured out how to get out. So I closed the garage door for the night and quietly wished him well.

Jordan was not happy when he woke in the morning and was told that Bumpy was no longer in our garage. Explaining that woodpeckers would not live in a garage for long ... especially when they weren't eating or drinking ... was not helpful. He went out to the garage to see for himself.

"Mom! He's here! He's here!"

Oops. Apparently Bumpy had found a quiet perch and had settled in for the night ... not left as I had thought.

Garage door ... BUMP ... bike rack ... BUMP ... It started all over again.

After school, it seemed (again) that Bumpy had gone. He was not on any of his usual perches. We searched every inch of the garage ceiling, door, shelves, bike rack, windows ... everywhere he might decide to hang out.

No Bumpy. More tears. More searching.

"Mom! Come here! I found Bumpy!" Only this time, Jordan's cries were not happy. They were concerned. Bumpy was found gripping the spokes of the wheel of my bike in the corner of the garage. He did not try to fly away when we approached. His head was raw and bleeding from bumping the ceiling so often.

We picked up the bike and carried it outside, careful not to let the wheel spin. Once we were out into the sunlight, we could see better what was going on. Not only did he have a death grip on my bike wheel, I wasn't sure he could let go if he wanted to. His talons were caked with cobwebs, bits of dead leaves, string, and other mess that one finds in the corners of a garage in dire need of cleaning. He was attached to the spokes whether he wanted to be or not.

Over the next hour and a half we got up close and personal with Bumpy.

We cleaned off his talons with a toothbrush. The fact that he let us was incredible enough. But even when he could move his feet, he didn't go anywhere. He was too weak.

We fed him water from a medicine dropper. It was amazing to see him go from getting a drop or two accidentally from what happened to make it into his beak to actively opening his beak and swallowing.

He let me rinse off his head with drops of water to get a better look at the bald and bleeding spot. Poor guy. That must have really hurt.

We tried to feed him food ... whatever bits of nuts and seeds and dried fruit we thought he might eat, but he wasn't interested.

We were finally able to coax him off the bike wheel and onto the ground, but still he didn't leave. What do we do now? I called our vet to see if they had any ideas. They referred us to Hollyberry Animal Hospital in Roswell, as they will care for wild animals. I called, and they said that if we could get Bumpy into a shoebox and bring him in, they would take care of him.

I checked my watch. Violin lessons were that afternoon, and we'd be cutting it close. I looked at my boys' faces, pleading me to take Bumpy to the vet. I looked at Bumpy, the woodpecker who had allowed us to touch him, pet him, clean him, and feed him. The violin would still be there next week. But would Bumpy?

"Wait!" Jordan ran back into the house. When he emerged, he was clutching dollar bills in his hand. "It's $11 from my birthday money. To pay for Bumpy's medical bills."

Of course. Jordan would do that.

We drove to Hollyberry with Bumpy's box riding shotgun. When we got there, we filled out some paperwork and the receptionist carefully opened the box. I guess when birds get scared they lose a little control of bodily functions because there was a big ol' mess in that box. But Bumpy was still with us, bloody and scared, though he was. The nurse took him back, and we were told that they would update us once the doctor looked at Bumpy. Jordan handed her his $11, and I swear the receptionist almost cried. I know I did.

Well, we just got the phone call. Bumpy didn't make it through the night. They treated his injury, but he was just too far gone. I knew Jordan would take it hard, so I avoided telling him as long as possible. More tears. More questioning why we couldn't have kept him as a pet. But there was a peace knowing that we had done what we could.

Listen ... I'm not an animal person. Seriously, I'm not. I know that our pets — four cats and one dog — love us. They believe we will take care of them. But they're family.

When a wild animal will let you do what we did to Bumpy ... well, that's just humbling. That's trust. That's just a little bit sacred.

Rest in peace, Bumpy.

Finish Well.