The ink was barely dry on last week’s hummingbird column when I walked out to my screen porch to find one of the dear little creatures trapped there. While he buzzed and hovered and occasionally rested on the string of party lights around the ceiling, I tried to figure things out.
For starters, how had he (I know it was a male because of his ruby-red throat) found his way in? I’m compulsive about keeping the screen door shut tight so that only visitors whom I wish to enter, can. Four-legged invitees are limited to my dog and cat, both of whom are adept at using the doggy door. In the ten years I’ve had that door, not once has a possum or skunk or raccoon or squirrel or rabbit or fox or groundhog entered the porch. Perhaps they stay away because dog and cat scent cover the door, though I don’t know that for sure.
Anyway, we all know a hummingbird can’t use a doggy door.
He might have slipped in when I went out to water the flowers in the window box, which isn’t actually beneath a window but on a handrail on the walkway near the porch. Or he might have flown in when the doors to the garage, which adjoins the porch, were open. At any rate, the poor little thing was trapped and scared and needed to be freed as soon as possible.
He’s not the first bird to be imprisoned on the porch. I’ve had bluejays and nuthatches and, once, a very angry mockingbird come in, but I was able to prop the screen door open and urge those birds outside with the broom.
Somehow I didn’t think that would work with this little fellow. Hummingbirds are so tiny and so fragile and their hearts are already beating so fast (about 1,200 beats per minute) that I needed to be careful. I didn’t want to cause cardiac arrest. What tool might be less threatening than a broom? Hmmm. Maybe a flyswatter? I have one with a telescoping handle that just might do the trick. I hurried inside to get it.
Alas, that attempt was in vain. It only upset the little bird more. There was only one thing left to do. I opened both garage doors, hoping all that light and those big, big exits would encourage his exit. Then I went back into the house.
I remembered a wonderful little book I read many years ago entitled “A Hummingbird in My House: The Story of Squeak” by Annette Heidcamp, published in 1991. The author tells of discovering a lone ruby-throated hummingbird in her yard in late summer. For reasons unknown, he’d missed the urge to migrate to the Southern Hemisphere. Knowing he’d never survive winter in upstate New York, Heidcamp lured the bird into her sunroom and made a temporary pet of him, providing food and shelter until Squeak’s friends returned in the spring and he could rejoin them.
Was I up for turning my trapped hummingbird into a pet?
Absolutely not. If he didn’t leave on his own, I’d have to find or fashion some way to capture him. Or I’d call on a friend who’s masterful at catching and releasing wildlife–including birds, bats, mice and even flying squirrels—from inside a house. She doesn’t use a net or trap. Her own speedy-but-gentle bare hands are her tool of choice. And, no, I’m not publishing her name, but if you ask me in person I’ll probably tell you.
This story, I’m pleased to say, has an unexciting but happy ending. After several hours of keeping the dog and cat off the porch and the garage doors open, the hummingbird left on his own. Or so I assume. I haven’t spotted him buzzing or hovering or perching anywhere, and I haven’t found a corpse.
As Mr. Shakespeare would say, all’s well that ends well. Thank goodness.
(August 16, 2025)