I watched its feathered breast rise and fall rapidly, expecting to see panic in it’s eyes, fear even. All I saw however were two black orbs, glossy and, to me, emotionless. I’m sure it was terrified, the poor thing was trembling, but I was blind to any emotions eyes would normally portray, for I am not a bird.
It’s slender scaly leg bent back in the most awkward of ways, and it left a spot of blood on my hand. It thrashed, trying desperately to escape it’s captor, but I held it. I didn’t want it to hurt itself worse, nor did I want for it to fall, once again, to its hunter.
I didn’t hurt this little bird of course, and if I had, it hadn’t been intentional.
No, while doing homework I heard my cat. A sound he made only in the upmost pride after capturing his prey. There he sat, at my bedroom window (curtained and ground level), gloating over his catch. Oh what small animal has fallen to the great black hunter with the brilliant green eyes?
My sweet pet has brought me presents before, usually freshly killed. Mice, rats, moles… Occasionally they are alive, but just barely. Paralyzed, or with organs hanging out, I’ve had to finish off these small creatures before, generally by throwing them into the lake behind my house. I felt guilty with every body that hit the water, as if I myself had caught the creature and torn out its throat.
I can see the cat, standing on the walkway to the door, and in its mouth… oh, why a bird? A free flyer, a small feathery friend. Still moving. Still breathing. Still alive.
I fake pleasure, congratulating and praising my pet for its successful catch. It can’t tell the difference between a bird and a mouse, and cats are natural hunters, who am I to punish him for that? But then, with that mischief, he runs, bird still in his mouth.
I’m sure the bird must be in pretty bad shape.
I return inside only long enough to retrieve a can of cat food. I distract my little hunter and salvage his pray, the little bird lies still in my hand, save for its labored breathing. Aside from the broken leg, it appears to be alright, however I can’t see it from the inside.
I bring it inside and I set it in a plastic tub with paper towels lining the bottom. It leaves a spot of blood on the paper towel. Poor little bird…
I stroke it lightly, it’s feathers soft under my touch. This little free flier, I’ve seen it’s type dance over the sky every morning, but to see it fall was like a reverse beacon of hope, the lack of. Over all, depressing.
Then, it moved. Violently. It thrashed its wing, it turned in circles, as if seizuring. I held it lightly in my hand, trying to prevent it from hurting itself worse, it was very warm. I brought it to my mother, looking for advice, she moved it to a strip of toilet paper to replace my hand, hoping not to overheat it. Perhaps I already had. I looked at it’s face through the gap in the paper, we were careful not to suffocate it. But still, I saw no movement.
None.
I lifted the paper slightly, no… it wasn’t breathing.
Just like that, the little bird had died, and there had been nothing for me to do. Perhaps I should have just left it to the cat, or perhaps I should have let it thrash, maybe it was trying to cool itself, or relieve its pain. Perhaps it’s death was partially my fault. Or perhaps it was doomed to die before I even touched it. There was no way for m to know, and I wonder, would it be better to know?
It wouldn’t help anything now.
I dropped it in the yard waste bin, regretting such an informal burial. A creature of the skies, left to rot among garbage. And I… went on with my life.
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