This afternoon, I heard a loud Smump! and saw a bird shudder away from the glass porch door, land abruptly, then stop moving, settled in an un-bird-like position. The bird’s eyes were squeezed closed, the way I’ve seen a dead bird’s eyes.
I’d already seen two dead birds on the patio, presumably also from flying into the door. While difficult to see them, and move and bury them in the garden, at least I hadn’t seen them die. Today I saw this bird flying in the sunshine, then, right in front of me, die.
Although of course I didn’t know this bird, I was immediately stopped.
Expecting a lawn mowing crew this afternoon, I resolved that if after the mowers left, the bird was still on the edge of the patio, inches away from the grass, I’d do what was needed. I started to walk away but thought again. Outside, I approached the bird. What I’d in my initial shock thought of as a male sparrow I realized was a female house finch, maybe a juvenile.
She was small, still. I quietly but with much optimism asked her to please get up. I sweet-talked her, knowing the talk was as much for me as any creature, aware that, healthy, she could be startled by my proximity and sound. But maybe that’s what she needed. After a few minutes, I left her.
My kitten Chili relaxed on the kitchen floor just behind the patio door. He seemed to sense something in front of him of interest. He stayed in his spot in the sun. I started to walk away. Instead, I talked to the bird through the screen part of the door. No, this isn’t right. I need to let what’s happening alone. When I looked back one more time, her head was turned.
Part of the dying process. She’s succumbing to gravity.
But what if she’s just stunned?
It was an irrational, irresponsible, thoughtless thought. It was going to assure I’d see her wake up, be irreparably injured, suffer, and die. I should leave her. She turned her head, facing me. Her eyes were partly open. Then they were all the way open. I could see sunlight. She started to blink. She wasn’t, I’m sure, but it appeared she was looking at me.
Thinking maybe it would startle her into some impossible mobility, I again approached her. She stayed put, blinking. I battled optimism and realism, realism and optimism, back and forth, punch for punch, willing her on but admonishing myself for what I was forcing. This will not end the way I want.
But what if I’m wrong? What if I’m right? I returned to the kitchen, Chili still watching the scene. He normally makes punctuated eh! eh!eh!eh! eh! sounds when watching birds, but since this bird was still, Chili was silent. This was unfortunate, but it’s a common occurrence.
She lifted slightly off the ground; I could see space between the patio and her tail. She tried to move further, farther, but stuck.
Now I’ve really done the worst.
She is suffering.
Should I take her to a veterinarian? The vet will tell me she’s a wild animal, that I should let wild be wild.
Now what do I do?
She teeter-tottered then stopped. Teeter-tottered then stopped. Tried to move forward and couldn’t. Heartbroken, I’d let her take her time, hopefully to heal but likely to die. When I returned, I’d find her dead. I’d bury her. I glanced once more.
She hopped.
This is going to be the worst.
She hopped again.
But what if it’s not?!
She flew.
I named her Percy, for Perseverance.
-LSM 6/13/19
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