Bird by Bird, Buttercup by Buttercup

‍ In my post-apocalyptic world where I am still reeling from…

‍Das Foot + Das Fire = Das Apocalypse

‍I have had to pay more careful attention to my heart + nervous system.

While it is extremely difficult to be far from Altadena, the beach has been a healing refuge for my heart, soul + foot.  My foot actually needs the daily therapy that only walking barefoot in sand can provide. My heart and soul need the beauty.

‍So, when my time there was threatened, I felt pretty vulnerable. My nervous system took a big hit and I started having nightmares like right after the fire. ‍

Two things happened at the same time that brought on the threat.

‍First, spring break started so it was no longer super-peaceful and largely empty.  That was a jolt, but I bucked-up my buttercupness and it ended up being fine.  Stella got so much love from kids and adults alike, and I learned that I didn’t have to be friendly with every single human. I could keep my head down, sunglasses firmly on and keep on truckin’ while Stella trailed behind me in all her Tiggerishness and did all the stranger-loving for both of us.

That time when Tiny Spiderman and Tiny Spiderwoman Tried to Save Us

‍But almost at the exact same time as the onslaught of humans was an onslaught of dead birds appearing on the beach.

‍Not one or two birds. 

The first night I noticed them it was around six dead birds – all different kinds (pelicans, seagulls, murres) -- in the mile stretch I traverse (back and forth) every day.

‍I thought certainly they would be picked up by the ranger I often see emptying the trash cans. But they weren’t.

‍It started to make me so sad I was weighing whether it was worse for my state of mind to keep coming to the beach.  There’s nothing more depressing than unattended dead animals.

But Das Foot. Truly, my metal-clad foot needs to be pushed by the sand to turn and twist, my toes need to be pushed to grab and roll. I needed the beach.

—

‍One day I saw a toddler playing in the sand not six feet from a dead bird that I knew had been there at least a couple of days. The kid’s parent was right there.

This is where it got even more post-apocalyptic.  That parent – and all the other many parents whose kids were playing in the sand oh-so-fricking-close to dead birds – seemed to be completely unphased.  In my mind their eyes were glazed over. 

‍But I was looking – as I have been tending to do since my personal apocalypse -- through my post-apocalyptic lenses.  Through them, I never saw a single person even consider the presence of a dead bird, as if they didn’t even see them!

‍I called it in to all the various proper authorities. Every day. Nothing happened.

‍Last year I had had to call in a dead seal every day for a week and it wasn’t until I reported that the dead seal had drawn twelve vultures (of whom I had a photo to send if they wished) that it was picked up the following day.  That was creepy, of course, but it was one single seal.

This was many birds every day.

‍So, instead of fleeing my needed sanctuary, I started picking them up and hauling them up to the trashcans.

‍I ended up being called back by one of the offices I had called to report the mayhem.  They referred me to Fish & Wildlife’s HQ in Sacramento, whose scientist very kindly called me to report that there were a lot of factors. There was a bigger than normal baby bird season in 2025 so more birds in the population than ever, less food available for them, the algae bloom’s demoic acid poisoning, and that which I could clearly see – oil.  Bird flu has not been reported in this area.

‍I am not brave around sick and dying animals.  I.  Am. Not. Brave. ‍

But like everything in my post-apocalyptic world, there appears to be no room for un-bravery.

‍I have had to repeatedly buck up, buttercup.

In the past, in the very few instances where I had to pick up a seemingly dead bird – for instance that had flown into my glass plate window – I would squeeze my eyes tight and feel my way through it. 

All but one of those birds, though, came back to life after a while.   They were only stunned, not at all dead!  Only one did I have pick up again for its burial. Yes, I did the picking up and the entire burial with eyes tightly shut.

‍These are sea birds, though - most with large gangly wings.  I must keep both eyes very wide open to maneuver them into a bag.  Then to add insult to open-eyed injury, Sacramento asked for photos of each bird I removed to help them with their investigation. Of course you can’t refuse that.

‍Buck up, buttercup.

Every single day I pray this is the day there will not be a dead bird to pick up.

I learned from my post on NextDoor that others are, indeed, picking them up. So, I wasn’t alone in my post-apocalyptic world. It just looked like I was.  Those damn post-apocalyptic lenses.

‍__

‍This morning, we walked for quite a while without seeing one.  I thought this was the day.  This would be the day of no dead birds!

‍Then I saw the remnants of a bird that had clearly recently been removed. I silently thanked that stranger and then hoped that was it for the day.

‍I then came upon a bird who was sitting on the wet sand.  Not standing, sitting still — far beyond the moment it should have taken off with the threat of Stella at my side.  At the very second I realized it was in distress, Stella bolted.  I screamed for her to stop.  The sweet bird could not take off.

‍Stella did come back to me fairly quickly. I got her tied up to a log while I tried to figure it out.  I made a million phone calls.  Dead ends. ‍

I didn’t have a box in the car, so I asked a few passers-by if they happened to have a box in their cars.  One young woman offered to drive home to get one and come back.  I took her up on the offer.

‍In the meantime, I tried to get the bird into this Trader Joe’s cardboard-sided bag (without a top) that I had in my car.  The sweetest most gentle older woman (think Jane Squibb 20 years ago) came to try to help me.  It didn’t work. We got it in the half-box but the bird was fighting hard to get back out.  So, I let it out and just sat on the beach with Stella to wait for the superhero young woman to return.  We moved – every several minutes – a little bit closer to the bird.

This was toward the end of our journey scootching closer and closer to her:

‍When the amazing young woman returned with a box (holes already cut into it!) Stella (now very calm with the bird so near) and I were only a couple feet away.  The bird didn’t even flinch when I picked it up and set it in the box, now very accustomed to my stubborn presence.

‍We all trekked up the beach, and into the car without incident. I started the car and about 30 yards into our 30-minute drive she started flailing about in the box.  Something said “start chanting” and I started just chanting “Om.”  You cannot make this stuff up.  She immediately calmed. Immediately. I didn’t dare stop chanting.

‍ She was calm until we got off the freeway.  More flailing.  Something said “Try a different chant.”  I kid you not, it worked. She was completely calm again all the way up to gently handing over the box to a volunteer at the Wildlife Sanctuary in Goleta.

The chant? Narayana. I forgot the meaning and just found this: The name literally means "He who resides in the waters" (Nara + Ayana) or "the final refuge of all living beings.

You cannot make this shit up. O. M. G.

__

‍I burst into tears as I handed over the box to a volunteer.  We were at that point two hours into this mission. I was so fricking relieved to get her to her potential saviors I blubbered my explanation of where I found her, how the beach had been littered with dead birds for these several past weeks and I was so hopeful about this one suffering but alive. 

I assumed she had a broken wing from how she was moving and was terrified they would put her down. Many years prior a friend and I had brought a seagull in with a broken wing and that was its fate.

‍But no – she was going to be fine!  She - a murre - was just “oiled” and the vet (or vet tech) was going to de-oil her and she would be ok to fly again!!!!  She was sixth in line to be de-oiled at that moment.

This is her standing after she couldn’t bear the TJ bag/box.

‍I have been cursing the oil on the birds I have picked up because I assumed it was our collective human fault.  But the vet informed me it was common to have oiled birds brought in because it is naturally occurring off the coast of Santa Barbara, seeping up to the surface from under the ocean floor. Naturally occurring!  I had no idea.

‍He also told me that due to the heat at the surface of the water, the fish are swimming much lower down now.  Most birds can’t dive deep enough to retrieve them.  So there truly is a “starvation event” as the Fish & Wildlife HQ scientist called it.

‍More birds, less food, lots of oil, plus the demoic acid.  It’s like the birds don’t have half a chance.

Kind of like how life feels these days, eh?

‍Some days I think “I can’t buck up buttercup today.”  And then somehow I do.

‍Somehow the birds do.

Somehow we all do.  Right?

I don’t know anyone who is NOT being pushed to their outer limits of buttercupness right now.

‍It makes the tiny wins so much more meaningful.  This one bird will live.

‍Tonight, I may be retrieving more dead birds but this one bird (pictured below when I first saw “her”) gave me more reserves in my buttercup tank.

I just donated to the amazing Santa Barbara Wildlife Hospital.  They are fantastic humans helping the fantastic wildlife - if you feel inclined: https://www.sbwcn.org/wildlife-hospital

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