A veterinarian in general practice is used to being expected to know a lot. I don't know about guys in the city, but people have asked me to identify snakes, mastodon fossils, and suspected human remains (cow bones, as it turned out). Late night calls (from people without Google): "Do polar bears eat penguins, or just only fish?" [Seals; and bears are north and penguins south].
In the ordinary course of the day I'm supposed to be the internist, nutritionist, surgeon, dentist, radiologist, pharmacist, behavior counselor, pediatrician, gerontologist, ophthalmologist, and do a little grooming on the side ("Could you trim his toe-nails, too?").
I'm supposed to be ready to rock, whether it's a horse, dog, cat, cow, pig, goat, chicken, parakeet, iguana, snake, or ferret. I've treated pneumonia in a 70-pound Burmese Python, and colic in a zebra. I've wound up doing a lot of things I didn't feel all that well-qualified to do, simply because there didn't seem to be an alternative. Luckily, even when I can't refer, I do have experts I can call on for advice and guidance.
And what about wildlife? I'll tell you what about wildlife: there are a lot of things that you can't get fixed over the telephone, and there are some things that just aren't very fixable — period.
So here's the hummingbird that someone found and brought to us. Sits right on your hand. Drinks sugar water like a champ. One wing is non-functional. We called the exotic-bird guy we know and he referred us to someone he feels is a hummingbird expert. They both say it's a non-starter. Do you want to watch it die slowly? No, we don't. The best we could do was to set the bird and a litle towel and the sugar water in an anesthesia chamber until it got past the point of no-wake-up.
Just one of those days when your best isn't good enough. Nuts.