A baby gull rescue and the goddess Rhiannon

On Saturday morning I saw one of our cats, Billy, walking round the back garden with a large mostly white bird hanging from his mouth, its neck limp. I ran outside in freezing temperatures in only my dressing gown and garden shoes (stylish, yeah?) and chased Billy to try to get the bird from him. He dropped it, and ran away. The bird was alive, and turned out to be a very young black-headed gull.

I was told by the RSPCA (I inadvertently reference the RSPB in the video below) that all these gulls should be adults by now, as they are supposed to hatch their eggs in June. This little girl was probably hatched in September due to climate change causing confused behaviours.

Little Miss Gull is now at the vets on antibiotics, scoffing sardines and awaiting transfer to a wild bird sanctuary where she will be rehabilitated and then set free. Her leg was already injured before the cat got her and turned out to be caused by an infection possibly resulting from a foreign object embedded in the sole of the foot. They won’t know until the swelling has gone but she is responding to the treatment very quickly and is feeling much, much better. My own suspicion is that she may have something called bumblefoot, which chickens and all birds can get. If that is the case then the antibiotics will clear it without any need for surgery because there’d be nothing to remove.

That, or she’s stood on something sharp when feeding on the attractive landfill site just outside town. Gulls are scavengers and those ugly stinking mountains are full of food people waste.

People think gulls are plentiful but they are in fact Amber Status, meaning their numbers, in common with many other animals, are in decline.

It was a wonderful experience to find myself up close and interacting with a bird that people don’t usually get any contact with at all. She was incredibly clean, whether she feeds on rubbish tips or not, and her colours were magnificent, her feathers incredibly soft. I spoke to her gently and could see a keen intelligence in her eyes. She accepted my ministrations and occasionally held my fingers in her beak not to harm me but for comfort, I think; she’d have stabbed me with it if she wanted to cause harm, like she tried with the initial vet we saw who wasn’t very nice (but thankfully others at the surgery are nicer).

I’m now convinced I have a strong connection to Rhiannon, the goddess of birds. Rhiannon rides a white horse and is accompanied by three birds, one of whose songs brings death to the wicked, the second restores life to the dead and the third heals anyone who hears it sing. The number three is very important in Druidry; triads are linked themes and ideas used as mnemonics to teach us wisdom and knowledge. I’ve been told lots of times that for someone who’s only kept chickens for just under two years, I come across as having knowledge gleaned from years of experience. As well as the gull I’ve been able to help a racing pigeon that crashed in our garden and a poorly wild pigeon I found unable to fly under a local bridge—and all of these birds coming to me in just 18 months or so. These happenings are why I’ve begun researching Rhiannon, to find out what her mythological stories can teach me now I’ve embarked on my Druidic studies.

But it isn’t all new: we have two cockatiels indoors, and one of them was hatched by his parents (long passed away now) belonging to us, just before Christmas 1998. The RSPB at the time, who we called for advice, told us that nothing would come of the nesting because cockatiels don’t successfully raise babies unless in an aviary. Nevertheless, ours did. So this year was not the first time I’ve bred birds, just the first in which I intended to do so.

And then there’s Mulder, the one cockerel we’ve kept from a total of five boys hatched because he has an incredibly rare condition called polymelia, meaning he has four wings but is entirely healthy. Polymelia is so rare I can find only a couple of examples of it in poultry, at least on the Web, though it can occur in any species. For a bird to hatch with the condition as a consequence of our first-ever attempt to hatch eggs in both an incubator and under a broody hen, begged a question I so often ask: why me? Mulder is also exceptionally well behaved and so far we’re finding that having to bring him indoors at night and let him out every morning to avoid upsetting neighbours with his crowing is working very well. He simply does not crow until a reasonable hour, and then not very often or for very long when he does. And he loves the special treatment, waiting for me to collect him in the dark outside the coop if I’m running late, no longer trying to join the hens. If  I am ever late though, I do get a lecture of squawks, chirrups and clucks before he storms into our house in outrage at the delay.

We didn’t lose a single chick we hatched, which again is surprising because some degree of infant mortality can be reasonably expected. The mother hen Hepburn turned out to be the best possible broody one could hope for, truly exceptional and text-book perfect. @mumsmuddyveg took the other four boys and has never stopped making the occasional comment that she is amazed at how gentle and friendly they are. That’s high praise for this new poultry breeder and makes me very proud indeed that four good boys ended up with a good home and another kind keeper.

I’ve been told to call back on Monday to see how Little Miss Gull is doing but, all being well, she will be back in the skies in no time. I really wouldn’t be surprised if one of the local magnificent Red Kites ends up wanting my help in 2010…