Baby Bird
Poor, poor, baby.I came home from a church thing last night to find a baby bird on my doorstep. He had either fallen or been pushed out of his nest above my door. He was so small. I wrapped him up in a washcloth to keep him warm. I tried calling a couple of people to figure out what I should do to help him. No one knew. Evidently my friends are not the sort to successfully help small creatures. So I went and eventually found Karra who has work experience as a wildlife rescue helper person. So she had some good ideas about where we could get some help from. But no one was available to help on a Sunday night. So I took him home and determined that I would keep him alive until morning when somebody who knew what they were doing could help.
But he didn't make it that long. I felt truly terrible. I shouldn't have put him down. He was doing just fine while I was holding him. I don't think that he had any broken bones, he was moving around pretty well, he just seemed real tired. I think he was perhaps internally injured. Poor, poor baby.
The stupid web site said that I shouldn't "handle" him and it was best to make a "nest" for him to lay in. I should have held him. He was doing fine when I held him. I hate it when I don't go with my gut instinct. Instead I put him in a shoe box where he died.
It was pitiful. I hate how death looks. I mean, why can't it just look more like sleep? But it doesn't, there is something so much more vacant about death. You can feel it before your eyes detect it. I hate how death transforms the familiar into the unrecognizable. I hate being so certain.
I miss my poor, poor baby. I didn't want him to die. I wanted to take care of him. I can't believe how much this matters to me right now. It is pitiful.
poor, poor baby
posted by Trisha @ 11:13 PM
