One day we came home and noticed Chipper wasn't doing so hot. In fact, he was flapping around the bottom of the cage.
By the time we finally found out that Chipper's water had been gone for at least a week, it was too late. I'm sure my sister still feels terrible.
Tweet! Tweet! Thunk
We turned around and watched in horror as the baby birds that had been growing up in the birdhouse near our window made a pathetic attempt at flying, only to fall to their deaths on the pavement below.
The hot dogs almost fell from our open mouths. Little bodies, running like lemmings to the edge and soaring with all of their might, so happy for a second, and then the fluttery panic of tiny useless wings. And then the ground. My father rushed to place a pillow underneath, but it was no use. We buried them in the yard and a new family soon moved into the birdhouse. So it goes.
Through some morbid curiosity, i walked back the same way. It was still there, nestled in coarse grasses, not broken but not working. And not fixable. I stopped to look at it, on my haunches, being sure not to touch this miracle chick that had survived the day, in case it would be rescued by some creature better fitted for the task: its mother? It sensed me there and turned its head toward me, mouth open so wide. It seemed thinner, the sack of its little body looser. The black pins of developing feathers looked like fingerbones. I hurried home.
The next morning it screamed silently, and i knelt close to it, looking, pitifully, at the organs that shifted beneath its smooth monstrous skin as it begged me for food, or love. How was it that the cats or dogs had not snatched up this helpless little morsel?: I could imagine the crunch of its little bones in a predatory mouth, easily.. i could imagine the crunch of them in my hand. Its eyes were still closed, the pointy little protofeathers stood out in stark contrast to skin like wet rice paper. It must have felt my shadow through its closed eyelids (translucent as well); it followed my movement, weakly. A huge effort lifted its little head. I was overcome, i wanted to hold it, to comfort it - without consulting me, my hand reached out and gently scooped it up, where it rested quietly and warm in the hollow of my palm, its tiny feet curled beneath the loose pouch of its stomach. I walked to the far side of the train tracks and realized there was nothing, not even one little thing, i could do. I couldn't bring it to work. It opened its mouth and reached at me like the baby in Eraserhead. I gently set it in a patch of grass, on the far side of the tracks, by the parking lot. And forced myself to walk away.
It was gone when i came back that way that afternoon. No trace. Of course, there were no feathers to scatter.
I now have a bird that looks the same, his name is Chippy, I care for him like if he was my child, perhaps that's why I spend 300$ on him in 3 days when he got sick.
I also always pick up little baby birds that fall out of nests and take them to a shelter. And I avoid hitting them when driving. Perhaps I am so careful with birds because of the guilt I still feel for that little, helpless creature I killed when I was little. Pearhaps one day I will forgive my self.
The bird I hit was out of range. I knew it, but it had been a slow day and you have to take the shots you have. I missed with my first shot, or it didn't hurt it, then I hit it fell. I actually thought I had killed it, because it fell straight down without flapping or struggling.
When I got closer I could see it standing on the ground. It was testing its wings, hopping around, getting ready to take off.
I only had one shell left, having wasted my first shot and hitting with the second. I was about fifteen feet away when I pulled the trigger and destroyed the tiny, helpless bird.
I haven't shot at anything since then.
Upon discovering they were still alive the next day, my father brought them inside, to live on our porch. I was delighted - the two ugly, scrawny, noisy things were just adorable!
For the next few days, we fed them half a worm each, gave them water, and tried to keep the poor things alive. One of them died after two days, the other after four. We buried them in our backyard.
I couldn't understand why the birds died... we gave them shelter, food, and water. It just wasn't fair, the poor things. My parents said they probably were too little to eat worms by themselves, and they blocked up their systems. But it wasn't like I was going to chew up the worms for them. Oh well.
That's my dead bird story.
I took it to my dorm room. I looked through it with a flashlight. There was a growing baby bird inside. I thought it might be dead. I put it on my desk. It was vibrating in small but rapid movements - the fetus heart beating.
I felt strangely obligated to bring it to hatching, not knowing what I would do when or if it did hatch. The dorms didn't allow pets, and I certainly didn't have the time or knowledge to raise a baby bird. But I couldn't kill it, couldn't bring myself to abandon a life I thought I had saved. Various people advised me to crush it before it became a problem, but I couldn't bring myself to murder.
I used my monitor as a makeshift incubator. Every day I would feel its temperature, check its pulse, and do my best in trying to bring this baby to term.
Eventually, the question of "when or if" was answered for me.
I came home one day to a very faint smell of sulfur. I looked at the egg. It had cracked. I knew that it wasn't because the chick had come to term - it was nowhere near that.
Futilely, I checked its pulse. None.
I buried it beside a tree outside my dormroom.
With a sigh, she moved to her front door. Outside the rain beat down icy songs of wrongness. January carried such contempt here. Being used to warm, southern climes, the cold felt so wrong. It would be some months before the geese returned, heralding the coming of spring. The world will awaken, birds will come, the sun will brighten, and all will be right. That was some months away, and right now everything seemed wrong.
She heard Niko upstairs. He sounded distressed. Having owned her two canaries for many years, she became accustomed to their language. This was an alarm, there was something wrong.
Niko sounded again. Usually this signal warranted a return call, but there was none. It was odd since Orin generally sounded back. One would squawk high and the other would squawk back low, sort of like a locator beacon, saying all is well.
The rain seemed to intensify as she moved up the stairs. She took deep breaths to keep her paranoia in check. So many times it toyed with her, that idea that something would be wrong. It just came with owning free-flying birds. She had prepared herself many times to come home to dead canaries, only to find that nothing was wrong.
She reached her bedroom door and Niko sang out again, but no response. There couldn't be anything wrong.
She opened the door and saw Niko immediately, his favorite perch on her curtain rod. He loved to sit there and preen after his morning bath. Uneasily she stepped into the room, taking a methodical inspection of her surroundings. Orin was usually so easy to spot, being a vibrant orange-yellow. If she just took her time she would see him.
One more step inside, close the door so no one gets out. Maybe he was on the pillows..
Orin loved to hop around on the pillows, especially in the morning sun that streamed in. He would pick at her threads of hair that glinted in the light, making little squeaks as if he wished for hands. He was always her favorite of the two. He had a strong song, keen reptilian eyes, and an affinity for his owner that was remarkable for a small bird. Him not greeting her was all wrong.
She started to panic, her eyes darted around the room. She was frozen in one spot lest she should step on him. Termites of fear chewed at her...he has to be here.
Her german shepherd Robo sauntered from the other side of her bed. He had been lying down and she couldn't see him. This was definitely wrong.
She ran around the bed and stopped. There laid her little Orin, his eyes closed, his feathers wet with saliva. A futile scream of shock came out all wrong. The world around her halted, every thing felt still, no sound save Niko and his song of bewilderment and dismay. It was an imperfect moment in time, and it couldn't be more wrong.
She sat down and picked up his wet body, still warm, it felt alive, but he wasn't breathing. She clutched him close to her heart, wishing him to be alive, to give her a little peep. Yet she knew it wouldn't happen. Tears burned icy songs of wrongness down her cheeks. They sang of how she would miss Orin's reverie with the dawn. They sang of how she would miss his steely stare as he danced on her shoulder. They sang of how she would miss watching him sleep with his head tucked in his wings. They sang of how she would miss him lighting on her fingers to eat sunflowers from her hands. And they sang of how lonely Niko would be without him.
She put him in a silver tin, wrapped in a fine, silk scarf given to her by her grandmother. In the tin she placed a key, for yo
