My brother called from Michigan to tell me about a baby bird he met in his backyard over the weekend.  Eventually its mother showed up, so he was glad to know the child would be taken care of.  But, it brought to mind our pet Robin, Michael.

Actually, Michael was mine.  Everyone else in the family thought I was just heading for another one of those “I tried to save the baby bird, but it died” situations.  But, Michael was different.

I met Michael one day when I was on summer break from college.  The back door was open and through the screen, I heard an amazingly loud chirping of a bird.  I opened the screen door that lead from the back yard to the kitchen, and Michael marched in, screaming at the top of his lungs.

He didn’t seem at all afraid.  Nor was he intimidated by the lack of grass under his feet, the imposing height of the refrigerator or the befuddled human being watching him stalk around the room, evidently looking for something to eat.  Well, he was in the kitchen.

I hadn’t noticed any Robin nests close to the house, so I had no idea where to return him.  I decided to try and raise him until he was big enough to go out on his own.  And, that started a very memorable relationship.  I’m not sure why I called him Michael - it just seemed to fit.

I called the vet and asked him what I should feed Michael.  I’m sure he was the only Robin in town who pigged out on raw hamburger rolled into worm-shaped morsels.  I figured out that the best way to feed him was by wrapping him in a couple sheets of paper towel.  His bathroom habits were rather uninhibited.

And so it was that Michael became part of the family.  At night we would all watch TV with Michael sitting on a wooden pole that laid on top of his box.  At bedtime, he was closed in the box with the requisite towels and soft fluffy stuff.  As he grew and got stronger, the issue of his training had to be addressed.

We spent time outside chasing after ants and other small insects, and he eventually got the idea that he could eat them when he was finished pushing them around.  Flight school was in session every day and consisted of first being gently tossed in the air from a few inches off the ground, then from increasing heights.  He’d spend time each day sitting in a backyard tree until it was time to come back in the house.

Eventually, his flying skills improved and he would play in the neighboring yards, but he always came when I whistled.  It is quite an experience seeing a wild bird careening out of a neighbor’s backyard to land at your feet.

And, then of course, the inevitable happened.  One day he just didn’t come when I whistled, and I knew my job was done.  It was a little bit sad, but I was sure that he had undoubtedly found a mate.  Actually, based on the color of his chest as he matured, I really think Michael was a female.  And, I am sure that there are many generations of her descendents out there, signaling the coming of Spring.

I still remember my Robin whistle.  I fashioned it after the “feed me” chirping Michael made when he first arrived.  And, every once in a while I’ll whistle as I pass by a Robin who’s listening for worms on the lawn.  Those unsuspecting Robins will stop, tilt their heads and look around.  Then, you can almost see them thinking,  “Nah, the kids are already gone for this season!”