Okay, here's a girl you never want to date:
Yup, momma bird don't play!
This chick really found an abandoned finch in Ghana, where she had relocated to from London, and made that little bird her baby.
Not joking.
He was the size of my little finger, with feathers the colour of Rich Tea biscuits, inky eyes and a small bill like a pencil lead. I placed him in a cardboard box with tea towels, mimicking a nest, and stayed up all night, researching how to care for him. I spoke to an expert who said it would take 12 weeks to prepare him for the wild.
Yeah, this girl is the real deal. She took this baby bird in like that deleted scene from "Are You My Mother?"
And apparently the bird started nesting in her hair.
Each day, he made little "nests" in my hair, on the groove of my collarbone, which filled me with awe. He'd tuck himself under a curtain of hair and gather individual strands with his beak, sculpting them into a round of woven locks, resembling a small nest, then settling inside. He would allow it to unravel when he was done and start again the next day.
Yeah dude, that blue link there is a video. A super creepy video.
Here it is:
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Chick even wrote a memoir (you know you want to buy it).
Seriously though, you have to read this article, because it's absolute gold. I'll give you a little bit more of a preview, but you go on ahead and just click that link up there and read it yourself if you have time.
The next day, he woke with his mouth open and a shrill hunger call. I fed him termites and, instinctively, chirped at him. He chirped back and clambered into my hand, digging in his beak and head, then fell asleep in my palm. As far as he was concerned, I was his mother.
For the next 84 days, the fledgling lived on me. We became inseparable. He would fly alongside me, or cling to me as I went from room to room in the house, while we walked the grasslands or when I drove. He'd rest in my hand. As he learned to fly, he'd make short flights from my hand, to my shoulder, to my head, then abseil down my waist-length hair to rest again. He investigated my clothes, belt and shoelaces. I ate and went to the toilet one-handed, as he took daily naps in my cupped palm. At dusk, I would stroke and chirp to him until his eyes drooped and his head lolled to one side. Then I'd lower him into his tea towel nest and leave him until dawn.
Very, uh…interesting stuff there.
Nothing creepy at all about this.
Alright, I'll be honest. This story does have a decent ending.
Before I flew back to England for Christmas, we decided Robin [her husband] should let him fly while I was gone. Robin took him out to the flock three times. On the fourth day, the little bird flew away with them.
When I returned, in January, I'd watch out for him when the finches flew past. Every now and then, one would hang back, on a branch, and stare at me. I still cry when I think of him.
You're picturing her crying, right?
Me too.
And I'm not sure whether to cry or to laugh.
No, I'm laughing. I just thought I'd be nice.
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