Kermit the Frogmouth - Raising a Night Bird
Kermit, unlike his namesake, was a greyish-brown pompom with a beak - a very wide beak. The young Tawny Frogmouth had me entranced. An orphan, and with other carers booked up with temporary stays, I was only too happy to have a go.
I soon discovered the challenge of feeding, different from magpies and crows, birds I had become used to looking after. Learning about the fragile membrane at the back of a Frogmouth's throat, easily damaged during incorrect feeding techniques, had me terrified. However, I couldn’t let him starve. Discarding the plastic tweezers, so successful with other birds I'd cared for, I opted for softer and more sensitive tools, my fingers.
After a few hits and more misses, we both got the hang of it and settled into a regular routine. Kermie thrived. He soon became adventurous and inquisitive, wanting in on the action on every aspect of domestic live.
I'm positive there was a gleam of accomplishment in Kermie's huge eyes the first time he made it off the floor, wings beating frantically, scrambling for a place to land. Soon, he was up to testing his wings more vigorously, and I was worried the poor chap would develop a complex from being laughed at so much. I'm sure he knew I meant it in a 'good' way, as all mothers do.
Kermie was ready for full flight just a tad before the new aviary was ready to accommodate him. Not wanting to stifle his instincts or hamper his development, I brought him inside where he could practice flying sorties without fear.
The first time he draped himself – hanging like a limp, feather duster – over the back of a chair, I thought he had worn himself out, was ill, or had done himself a mischief while I wasn’t watching. The relief was enormous when I spoke to my Shelter Operator about my concerns. There was nothing wrong with Kermie (apart from at time having theatrical aspirations). He was ‘mantling’. This is when a bird spreads its wings, fans the tail and arches over its prey, hiding it from other predators. Quite why he chose the back of the chair to practice guarding his food, I had no idea. But, he was learning, and so was I.
Sharing my life with a nocturnal bird was interesting, to say the least, and both of us were much happier when the aviary was finished and he had plenty of room to do what Tawny Frogmouths are meant to do. Besides, cleaning up Tawny poo was one thing. Cleaning up regurgitated bone and fur, after Kermie's mousey dinner, was something quite different.
Once outside in the flight aviary, Kermie's flying skills improved and his natural instincts developed rapidly. There were times my heart stalled, thinking someone had released him while I was at work. But no, there he was, pretending to be a branch. Sometimes, it wasn't until I did a very bad imitation of a Tawny's call that he would relax, as if thinking, 'Oh, I know her, she's no threat.'
Kermie progressed well, however I had reservations about his ready acceptance of my presence. I was concerned that he might end up imprinted, which would mean that he would be unable to survive in his natural environment.
I needn't have worried. He naturally and rapidly distanced himself from me. Just like a normal teenager.
Watching Kermie gain strength and skill in flight and become less and less dependent upon me as his guardian, I wondered how I would recognise his readiness for release. In constant contact with my Shelter Operator during the whole process, I was assured I would know. She was right.
Instincts didn't have to be taught. They were inherent in his genes. Instinctively, he knew what noises to make, the various calls to produce at different times, as greeting, warning, and yearning for connection to others of his species. He knew how to imitate a branch, his camouflage against predators. More than once, he fooled me into thinking he'd done a Houdini from the locked aviary! He had known when to test his wings, progressing from a few feeble flutters to swift, strong beats.
Kermie had progressed from finger food mush to whole mice, and grown independent to the point where, like a typical adolescent, he would back away from my approach. Gone were the days when he would step onto my hand, which he'd done at the beginning of our amazing relationship. He knew when it was time to go. Our goodbye was fast approaching.
The weekend was unsettling for him, due to high temperatures and a visit from my best friends. That Sunday evening, when all was back to normal in Kermie's environment, I knew it was time to test his readiness for the big world outside the aviary.
For the first time in weeks, he didn’t back off when I entered the aviary. Instead he waddled along the branch and stepped onto my arm.
Out of the aviary, his head was on a swivelling spring, taking in the largeness of the night and his surroundings. He stuck with me while I went inside to turn off the porch light, to let his eyes adjust properly to the darkness. We stood in the backyard for some time - I wasn't about to force freedom upon him if he wasn't ready. In the warm, still darkness, he eyed off the garage roof while I murmured advice about not approaching strangers and the perils of domestic cats.
After sitting awhile, he made his decision. In a whoosh of wind from his powerful wings, Kermie chose freedom.