Pothole Doesn't Make It...

Pothole, the bird we picked up last week is dead.

After almost a week in our apartment, suffering the indignity of being fed with a syringe, it suddenly became unwell last night and began to have difficulty breathing. We noticed a lump near its throat; perhaps some kind of growth. Although still breathing with difficulty when we went to bed, by this morning it had, to our great sadness, passed away. Over the past week we have become quite attached to the little miracle. Such a tiny thing... (It turned out to be a swift, not a swallow, probably a Pallid Swift) . It seems incredible that such a tiny creature could fly south to Africa once, let alone every year of its life, which may be up to 20 years. For a while, we were quite hopeful that we'd be able to encourage it to fly off and join its brethren, who flit through the skies of Tabua day in and day out.

All the information we've found indicates that rehabilitating a swift is very difficult. Some people have gone to great lengths over many years to develop methods, but even then the success rate is not brilliant. I suspect that diet was a problem in this case. Swifts are insectivores, yet the feed we bought at the local pet shop was cereal-based. Pothole was never happy eating it, and it may just be that it wasn't providing what it needed. On the other hand, it is just possible that Pothole was never going to make it; there was probably a reason for it ending up out of the nest and on the pavement in the first place -- perhaps it was thrown out as a no-hoper, or maybe (as we suspect) it was unable to see properly.

Anyway, the little thing has gone. At least it had a comfortable final week (apart from those few times a day when a syringe was thrust into its mouth). We buried it in a special spot in our garden, under an olive tree. We trust it will find peace there.