RESCUING RUFUS

“…I’m thinking: Hmmmm, how is this like me?”

May 02, 2025

I live in Mancos, Colorado. I have this really big garage, one door big enough for my truck camper to dock through when the top’s cranked down.

A short distance from the garage, a wraparound porch surrounds my little house on a hill. Two hummingbird feeders hang from the eaves.

Broad-tailed hummingbirds swoop to drink. The metallic trill of the broad-tails reminds me of a little flying saucer. Then, a little rufous hummingbird zazzes in and chases away the larger, broad-tails. The rufous will defend a food source against just about all comers.

I admire hummingbirds. They’re fast, zooming like dragon flies as fast backward as forward, dashing straight up toward the zenith of the sky until they dissolve in the sunlight. The rufouses flicker side-to-side in their iridescent rust and the broad-tails do the same in their rose red. They appear and disappear from my slow-motion sight like cloaked Klingon Birds of Prey.

One calm and bright summer day, I’m deadheading the groundcover. Both garage doors are open like shuttle docks on the Enterprise. I stroll into the garage to grab a garden claw, and I hear the harmonic hum of a hummingbird in flight. It was a rufous, buzzing around the eaves of my garage, about 12 feet above the tarmac.

Not only does my garage sport giant doors, but it has high eaves defined by dozens of open rafters. Above the rafters, grilled heat vents let in a little light. My little rufous friend, let’s call him Rufus, kept flying back and forth above the rafters, searching for a way out. I suspect he was baited into the garage by the red lanyards that hung from each electric door opener. The sunlight leaking in through the heat vents might’ve confused him as to a way out, since he never once dipped below the rafters, where the real way out was apparent. And I think: Hmmm, how does this apply to my life?

My friend, Rufus, would soon exhaust himself seeking escape. Hummingbirds run on a lean mixture. Their metabolism is much speedier than ours and I was afraid he’d run low on calories and die. So, I set about fixing a rescue.

I have a rather long snow rake leaning against the wall in my garage, meant to squeegee snow from my exceptionally steep metal roof. I have the aforementioned hummingbird feeders on my porch.

I grab one detachable length of pole for the snow rake (it comes in sections) and attach the hook of the hummingbird feeder to the eyelet meant for the next section of pole. A snow rake’s poles work kind of like an aluminum tent pole from the old days, back when they had canvas tents and Boy Scouts hadn’t disappeared from most of their former range.

Meanwhile, Rufus buzzes back and forth, emitting panic pheromones to all the other rufous hummingbirds in southwestern Colorado, ensuring a boycott of my birdfeeders. Once in a while, he catches a rest and perches on one of the rafters. That’s the ingenuity of my plan. When Rufus stops for a breather, I inch the feeder up on its pole real slow, right above the rafter where he’s perched. The red attracts him and, and! He’s gone! I moved it too fast. Or too slow. You can’t tell with hummingbirds since they live and move on an accelerated timescale. I mean, they’ve mastered the art of warp speed, just like a Starship.

And as I watch him flitting back and forth, going nowhere, I’m thinking: Hmmmm, how is this like me?

I must remain patient and wait until Rufus decides again to alight on a rafter beam. Soon enough he does. And I’m right underneath him. And I inch the pole up, not too fast, not too slow, the ruby nectar dripping down on my arms until I start drawing flies and yellowjackets instead of Rufus. And then, and then, Rufus hops on the feeder and takes a couple sips.

Slowly, oh so slowly, I lower the pole and my hand starts to tremble and… Rufus is gone. Buzzing around my garage, knocking against the heat vents like a fly against the pane, looking for the way out when there’s a huge exit right underneath him.

I have to wait until he perches on a rafter again. Then, slowly, slowly I raise my staff with the red disc teetering at the end, the nectar dripping on my face. And Rufus hops aboard the spaceship and takes a drink. And I gradually, smoothly, lower the pole. Almost under the garage door now. “Sit Rufus. Sit,” I whisper. And Rufus flies off.

Is he spooked by the sway of my arms? I can only keep the pole so stable. Or does he just get bored and decide to buzz off?

But my ingenuity fails me. “Rufus, you win.”

Another Great Thought bursts into consciousness. It’s a little more radical, but the stakes are higher. I don’t know if Rufus will survive the night in my unintentional aviary.

I walk to the hose, attach the spray gun (just an ordinary sprayer without too much pressure). I drag the hose into the garage. Rufus is hummin’ and searchin’ for a way out. I wait until he’s right overhead. I point. I aim. I pull the trigger. I spray a water jet right up Rufus’s rump. He crashes in a vertical line to the concrete, drenched.

He stares at me, stunned. I stare at him, stunned. Will he ever fly again? He’s soaked and his tail seems like it’s on sideways. His wings are a little askew.

And I’m thinkin’: Oh, shit. I just wasted a hummingbird.

In a few seconds, he lifts off like a helicopter. He twitters backwards through my huge garage door and rotors upward at the same time, like only the Enterprise can. He disappears in a giant arc over my garage roof.

And I’m thinkin’: I guess that is just how I live my life. When the Dude with the Really Big Garage Who Fills my Feeder can’t get my attention through the gentle persuasion of nectar, he’s gotta use more radical means. That’s when he shoots cold water up my ass. But it works, doesn’t it?

Read more about these landscapes in my books. My novels and short story collection are currently available through my website.

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