Are You My Mother?

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We have a pet bird.

No, no.  She doesn’t live in a cage or sing.  She doesn’t say, “Pretty bird!” or “Step up!” like my brother’s old birds.  In fact, this is what her day looks like:

  1. Walk to the left.
  2. Walk to the right.
  3.  Hop up on some bricks.
  4.  Run away from the humans.
  5.  Repeat 1-4

Poor birdie.

We don’t really know what happened.  Two days ago Victor told me there was a bird stuck in the back patio area and she was trying to figure out how to leave.  Upon examining her (from a distance), we could see that something appeared to be wrong with her wing.  One sits high on her back, and the other hangs a little.

We brainstormed ideas to help our bird friend.  But, this isn’t the States.  I can’t call up the University and ask what to do.  There aren’t organizations of strange bird lovers sitting around waiting to heal a wounded bird.  We couldn’t put her outside the gate–she’d die for sure!  And we might hurt her worse if we tried to capture her!  I had a moment of remembering my dog, Banjo.

Poor Banjo was crazy.  Literally.  After endangering my nephew and another young boy–we made the decision to put him down.  So, I thought of that:  if the bird is hurting, maybe we should just kill it.  (I grew up in the country.)

I’ve opted to keep it instead.  So, Victor and I feed our bird old bread and we make sure that water is available.  My hope is that she will miraculously heal and take off one day.  Until then, we celebrate the small things (that ACTUAL bird lovers would never celebrate…):  Our bird doesn’t hide from us anymore!  She scurry behind her block or sink down in the hole that Victor dug for some plant.

It may be love.

One response

  1. I LIKE this. Taking care of poor little helpless animals is my ‘thing’ anyway, you know – – and I don’t have a bit of problem picturing you taking care of Mr. Bird. Give him an extra little bite of bread, and tell him it’s from me.

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