"Come on, you're just in time for the stampede," Laura Quinn said, as she grabbed her walker and began trudging toward the beach.
Picking up a slimy bowl of fish, the 81-year-old founder and director of the Florida Keys Wild Bird Rehabilitation Center headed down the boardwalk, tossing food to ibis, snowy egrets and pelicans lining the route. Hundreds more wild birds awaited her arrival at the beach for the daily 3:30 p.m. feeding.
"There's no fish in the bay anymore; that's why they (the birds) come here," Quinn said. "If we didn't feed them, they'd starve to death."
For 25 years, the acerbic and stubborn Quinn has battled neighbors, code-enforcement officers, government wildlife agencies and now the Federal Emergency Management Agency — the center's buildings are illegally in a flood zone — for the sake of her mission: saving wild birds and educating people about them.
Thousands of feathered creatures owe their lives to the former math teacher, who has never taken a salary for the 365-day-a-year job of running the wild bird center. But age and physical labor are taking a toll on Quinn. Some of her supporters say it's time for someone new to take over.
"She really needs to pass the mantle," said Bob Foley, a former veterinarian who served on the center's board of directors for years and mentored Quinn. "She has reached an age in her life where she needs to put the time into herself that she has been giving so many years to the birds."
A month ago, the nonprofit center that survives on donations, grants and "begging" nearly became a casualty of the recession, Quinn said. Monthly income plummeted from $36,530 in August to $9,205 in September.
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"We laid off three people, including myself, and still couldn't make payroll or pay utilities," said the center's manager Bruce Horn, who began as a volunteer 20 years ago and is now volunteering again.
A local newspaper published an article about the plight of the center, triggering nearly $25,000 in donations, enough to stay afloat.
"I'm not saying we're safe, but there's hope for the future," Quinn said.
The perennially struggling center is still feeling the hit from Hurricane Wilma in 2005. Last December, Quinn took out a reverse mortgage on her home — she lives on the 5.5-acre property that also houses the center — to pay off a $90,000 debt for repairs to the center.
"What Laura has done on a shoestring budget is remarkable," Foley said. But "what the bird center really needs is a very deep-pocketed sponsor that can properly address issues for the long-term future."
He said the medical facilities need modernization. Quinn — who wears cut-off shirts and shorts soiled with blood, dirt and bird poop — is proud of her resourcefulness piecing together equipment and supplies for X-rays, blood work and injuries.
The center has a $350,000 annual budget with a staff of four paid employees, plus Quinn and Horn. The center expects to treat about 700 birds this year, most sick or injured by fishhooks, fishing lines, power lines and environmental toxins.
The center also permanently cares for about 90 birds that can't survive in the wild, including Gypsy, the barn owl amputee, and Striker, a broad-winged hawk with an amputated left wing and no sight in his right eye. They are exhibited in a serene setting among the hammocks and mangroves, drawing nearly 15,000 visitors so far this year.
Twenty-five years ago, Quinn's only interest in birds was carving them from wood. After visiting Foley's veterinarian practice to look at his birds for structure details, she became interested in rehabilitation. She moved to Plantation Key, got permits and founded the bird center at her home.
But as the center grew, so did dissent. Neighbors complained about the smell and the bird droppings. She lost a code-enforcement fight and relocated in 1990 to Tavernier.
Horn, a former real estate agent, helped her purchase the property where the center remains today. He said her devotion to birds has never wavered.
"One time, she jumped off a dock in water that was too shallow to chase an injured heron that was going into the mangroves near Buccaneer Point," he recalled. "She cracked a bone in her ankle, but kept going after the bird."
A former intern, Kelly Grinter — who went on to found the Marathon Wild Bird Center — remembered Quinn teaching her to provide heat to birds from above, like they would get from the sun or their mothers.
And even though Quinn often snaps if anyone questions her methods or decisions, she also wants to pass on her self-taught knowledge of birds.
"I know Laura is having a hard time letting someone take over for her because as a rehabber you feel so responsible for all your animals," Grinter said.
Quinn is protective of her birds. She apologizes to them when she runs out of fish. And when the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission told her she had too many birds for her cages, she built bigger cages and more of them to prevent any euthanasia.
Last week, she learned some good news, the kind that make her sacrifices worthwhile: "YC," a yellow crown night heron, was back. For the 13th year, the migratory bird had returned to the center after Quinn nursed it back to life.
