It all started last summer, right after a huge thunderstorm knocked a bunch of tree branches down near the creek behind my house. I went outside to pick up the branches that blew into my yard, and I heard this tiny, high-pitched chirp coming from under my patio table. I knelt down, and there he was: all soaked, his bright orange baby feathers all matted, one wing tucked a little weird, his tiny pointy beak opening and closing like he was yelling at me for taking too long to find him. I picked him up super carefully, he was lighter than a AA battery, I swear. I called the local wildlife rescue right away, but they said they had 30+ storm-injured animals dropped off that day, they didn’t have any extra staff to take him for at least a few weeks. They gave me a quick 10 minute crash course over the phone on what to feed him, how to set up his cage, what signs to look for if he’s getting sick, and asked if I could foster him temporarily. I agreed immediately, even though I had zero experience with wild birds, let alone kingfishers.
First night was pure chaos, let me tell you. I grabbed an old clear storage bin I had in the garage, poked a bunch of holes in the top, taped mesh over it so he could breathe, put a shallow dish of water in the bottom, and a little smooth rock for him to perch on. Then I realized I had nothing to feed him. The rescue said kingfishers only eat live small fish, no seed, no regular bird food, nothing else. It was 7:45pm, the only pet store open nearby closed at 8, so I jumped in my car and drove like a maniac, got there 2 minutes before they closed, bought every single pack of tiny feeder minnows they had. Got home, dumped a few minnows in his water dish, and sat back waiting for him to eat. Dude just stared at me like I’d served him a plate of rocks. Then he snapped at my finger when I got too close to the bin, missed, hit my nail, it hurt so bad I yelped. I thought, great, this is going to be a long few weeks. I named him Kip that night, cause he kept doing these little kip jumps around the bin, like he was trying to fly even though his wing was hurt.
The first week was full of so many mishaps I lost count. Kip was the pickiest eater I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something cause I’ve fostered a cat that would only eat tuna if it was warmed up to exactly room temperature. If the minnows I gave him were even a little too big, he’d grab them in his beak, fling them out of the bin onto my floor, and chirp super loud like he was cursing me out. Once I accidentally gave him a minnow that was almost as long as his whole body, he tried to swallow it whole, and I swear his eyes got all big, he started choking a little. I panicked so bad, I opened the bin, gently tapped the back of his neck, he finally spat the minnow out, then gave me the dirtiest look I’ve ever seen from a bird. He refused to eat anything I gave him for the next 4 hours, like he was staging a protest. Oh and cleaning his bin? That was a war zone every single day. Kingfishers splash water everywhere when they eat, plus there’s fish bits and poop all over the bottom, so I had to clean it twice a day. Every time I opened the top, he’d dive bomb my hands, leaving tiny little beak punctures all over my knuckles. I went through a whole box of band-aids that first week, no joke. My roommate kept making fun of me for having “battle scars from a bird that’s smaller than my palm”.
The worst (and funniest) mishap was the day he escaped. I was cleaning his bin one morning, I unlatched the mesh top to pull out the dirty water dish, and I didn’t prop it closed all the way. Next thing I know, there’s a flash of orange and blue zooming past my face. Kip was flying around my living room like a tiny missile. First he slammed into my pothos plant, knocked the whole thing over, dirt went all over my cream carpet. Then he tried to perch on my TV, slipped, almost knocked my PS4 off the shelf onto the floor. My cat Mochi saw him, started chasing him around the couch, I’m yelling, tripping over my rug, trying to catch him before Mochi got him or he broke something else. It took me 20 whole minutes to finally catch him with a dish towel, and when I did, he was completely unharmed, even looked proud of himself, like he just won a race. I had to vacuum for an hour to get all the dirt up, and I went straight to the hardware store after that to buy a heavy duty latch for his bin, no more cheap tape holding the mesh down.
It wasn’t all chaos though, there were some really sweet moments too. After about two weeks, he started recognizing me. When I walked into the room where I kept his bin, he’d chirp at me, not the angry yelling chirp, this soft little peep sound. One time I was sitting next to his bin eating a tuna sandwich for lunch, he tilted his head at me, like he was curious about what I was eating. I tore off a tiny little piece of tuna, held it up to the mesh, he ate it immediately, then chirped again like he was asking for more. I started giving him a tiny piece of tuna as a treat every time he let me clean his bin without biting me, it worked surprisingly well. When his wing started healing, he’d flutter around the bin for a few seconds at a time, and he’d look over at me like he was showing off how much better he was getting. I took him to the wildlife rescue for a checkup at the three week mark, and the vet said his wing was fully healed, he was big enough and strong enough to be released back into the wild. I was so happy for him, but I also almost cried right there in the vet’s office, I got way more attached to that little troublemaker than I thought I would.
Release day was both the best and saddest day I’ve had in a long time. I drove him down to the creek behind my house, that’s where I’m pretty sure he came from, there’s a whole group of kingfishers that live there. I carried his carrier down to the bank, set it on a flat rock, opened the door. He sat there for a good 10 seconds, looked out at the water, then looked back at me, like he was saying goodbye. Then he zoomed out of the carrier, perched on a low hanging branch over the creek, chirped at me once, then dove straight into the water and came up with a minnow in his beak, all on his own. I stood there for almost 15 minutes watching him fly around, chase other kingfishers, catch more fish, I may have teared up a little, don’t tell anyone. I still go down to that creek every weekend to walk my dog, and every now and then I see a kingfisher with a tiny little nick on his left wing (Kip had that exact nick when I found him) perched on that same branch. He chirps at me when he sees me, I like to think it’s him coming to say hi.
People ask me all the time if I’d ever get a kingfisher as a permanent pet, and my answer is always no. Kingfishers are wild animals, they belong flying free, catching their own fish, making messes in the creek, not trapped in a bin in my living room. But those three weeks with Kip are easily some of my favorite foster memories ever, even with all the band-aids, the spilled fish, the dirt all over my carpet. If you ever find an injured wild animal, don’t try to keep it as a pet on your own, always call your local wildlife rescue first, they’ll tell you what to do. But if they ask you if you can foster a tiny little kingfisher for a few weeks? Say yes. It’s messy, it’s chaotic, you’ll go through a lot of band-aids, but you’ll end up with a story you’ll tell for years.