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May 16, 2008
I got up early this morning, went outside, and buried the little bird that had fallen out of our car port the day before. Poor little thing never had a chance.
I remember my grandpa telling me not to touch a baby bird if you found it outside of a nest, that the mother would smell you on it and abandon it. Of course that's not true, many birds can't really even smell.
But I realized as I looked at it in that little teacup nest, cold and dead, there is a reason for such a rumor. The poor little thing had very little chance of survival, even though I fed it as best I could. It's best for children not to bring them home, simply because it will usually die either way.
Of course, my family, always treating me like a baby, wouldn't let me kill it. I would have, but I don't own a gun and no one would lend me one. It either froze to death or starved, I couldn't figure which. I only brought it in to keep it from dying a slow death, and yet no one would let me kill it humanely. Therefor, I became the instrument of its suffering. It depended on me for food and shelter, and I couldn't give it enough of either. It's best to remain detached from such affairs.
Is there a point to this blog? That baby birds often die? That birds will not abandon their chicks based on smell? No, not really. But if anything, my point is, that I am something like that bird. I am not dying, at least not yet, but I am alone. Maybe my tombstone should say "Poor thing never stood a chance."
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