Pity and the Natural Order of Things

So, those gorgeous windows I was writing about yesterday? Well, they aren't only good for bird watching. They also happen to be great for bird killing. Sad but true, there isn't a day that goes by that we don't hear the THUMP of some innocent and unsuspecting birdy braining himself against the glass. At first it used to startle me... now I hardly notice. The collision isn't alway fatal to our feathered friends, but it often is. I'm sure the local scavengers think of the perimeter of our house as an all day dead bird-buffette. Nice huh?


Well this morning we discovered a little grey bird on it's back outside by the slider off the dining area. Another goner we all assumed, until with a great and awkward effort the poor guy kicked rolled, and flapped his way on to his stomach where he sat pathetically motionless except for the labored heave of breath. He was a sorry sight, and I didn't think he'd last the hour. And yet, two hours later he was still in the exact same spot, in the exact same position hanging on.  By this time the kids had hit me with every question about birds, windows, and boo-boos you can imagine. Normy must have told me a dozen times that the bird needed a band-aid and Georgia was insistent that she, the animal rescuer, should be entrusted with the care of "the little baby bird who misses his mama."


I tried as gently as I could to let the kids know that this was a wild animal, and there really wasn't much that could be done to help it. All the while inside I thought the only help I had to offer was a swift death. Of course, I couldn't bring myself to actually do that. Instead, against all odds, I brought the poor crippled thing a pile of crumbs left over from Lola's mashed toast and a shallow dish of water. I had read some place that birds had to eat very regularly and often because of their high metabolism and I must have secretly hoped that just MAYBE...


Surly, if I had any hope for the bird it was on an unconscious level. On the way to Norm's speech therapy this morning I was contemplating how to deal with the bird's death and the questions the children would inevitably ask when we came home to find his little body toppled-over lifeless on the patio. As it was Georgia talked about him incessantly on the drive. I told him he'd likely be dead when we got home.


"Where will he go then?" she asks.


"Well, we'll dig a little hole and give him back to the Earth." I tell her.


"What about the worms?" she asks. She really loves worms.


"Well, the worms will eat the birds body and turn it back in to the soil to help plants grow." I go on.


"Why?"


"That's the circle of life..." pretty heavy stuff at eight o'clock with a three year-old.


Our day progressed, and a few hours later I found myself dashing back into the house to grab a few forgotten things while the girls chilled in the car listening to the radio. I peeked out the sliding glass door and there was the bird. Still there. Still sitting. Still laboriously breathing. "Crap." I thought. I walked back into the kitchen (my back to the bird) resolved to grab my kitchen gloves and put the poor broken thing out of it's misery then remove its remains. That way it  would be believable when I told the children that the bird made a miraculous recovery and flew away. But, when I turned back around the bird was gone! I didn't see him fly off; he was just gone. It was as though he'd never been there except for the few hopeful crumbs I put out for him, the smudge he made on the sliding glass door, and a little pile of birdy poop right by his water dish. I wonder if he read my mind?

I was beyond relief. Later that day however, Georgia was disappointed. She said, "But, I was supposed to return him to the Earth!" Sorry kid, maybe next time.