A metaphor for my life

I was sunning myself yesterday, sitting on a lounge chair next to my pool while Chicky slept, when I had the odd feeling that someone was watching me.

And there was.

A fluffy little bird (maybe a Winter Wren?) was sitting on the edge of my pool not seven feet away from me. Just sitting there. Not moving. Looking at me.

That's odd, I thought, I didn't notice that bird fly over here. I must be really into this book.

Which, if you are familiar with his books, is unfortunately not as good as most of the other books in this series.

But I digress.

So I watched this wee bird, who didn't seem to be very old at all, sit there next to the pool. I don't know how long we sat there like that - long enough that he seemed to fall asleep for a moment - but I was struck by the oddity of the situation. Why is he sitting there? Why doesn't he fly away when I make the slightest movement?

I had to investigate.

I moved to a sitting, instead of a lounging, position. He didn't move. I shimmied closer in my chair. He didn't move. I stood up. Yep, still not moving.

Well, that does it. He was obviously hurt and couldn't fly. I wondered if the hawk I had seen all summer circling our neighborhood (the one that probably ate my cat) got a piece of this poor bird.

Now, I should preface the rest of this story with a word about myself: As much as I love animals, I am not the one who rushes forward to be the first to help an injured squirrel, turtle, or bird. I'm practical when it comes to wild animals and birds, there's the circle of life and all that. And if we're being honest, birds freak the fuck out of me.

But I couldn't just let him stand there at the edge of my pool without doing something. What if he fell in?

I moved closer toward him and that scared the hell out of the poor bird. He started hopping away.

Well, that confirmed my fear. He couldn't fly. But damn, that bird could hop.

I walked briskly after him but every time I reached down he hopped out of reach. The little sucker, didn't he know I was trying to help? Bird brain.

By now you may be thinking what I was thinking: Bird flu. Uh huh. Probably not the smartest thing to touch the bird with my bare hands, so I went inside to get a towel. And, for good measure, a shoe box.

Found the towel but for once in my cluttered existence I did not have one shoe box in my closet. What are the freaking odds?

I finally found a shoe box. It held a bunch of metal curtain tie backs. Those tie backs have now been added to the clutter in my bedroom. They fit in well.

I went back out to the pool and there was the bird, right at the edge of the pool again. Poor baby, he was probably thirsty. Or needed a cool, refreshing dip.

I chased that bird through wet mulch (I didn't have shoes on) and over pea gravel. I stubbed my toe on the edge of my tomato box and swore a bit. Okay, a lot. But every time I threw the towel at the bird he would hop away. Even when I got the towel over him he hopped out from underneath it and away from me. Quickly.

In his frantic scramble for freedom the bird would occasionally lose his balance and flop over on this back, and that's when I got a chance to see some of the damage to his wing. It was bad. If the bird escaped my clutches and hopped into the dense overgrowth at the edge of my property he'd be cat food. I had to help this poor creature. It had become my mission to save him.

Let me tell you now that it was getting pretty late in the afternoon and Chicky had woken up from her nap. I could hear her singing to her baby doll in her crib through the monitor in my bedroom. It wouldn't be long before she started yelling for me. The pressure was escalating.

But if I catch this bird what the hell am I going to do with him, I thought. The cat will want to nibble on him and the dogs will have a conniption fit if they smell another creature in the house. They were already freaking out on the other side of the pool fence as they watched me chase this small being around the yard.

Fuck it, I thought, I'm getting crackers. After all, food works for the dogs (and for the cat, we don't call her Jabba the Cat for nothing) so maybe if the bird is really hungry he'll be more willing to acquiesce to my fumbling grasp. It could happen.

After grabbing a whole sleeve of Ritz crackers I ran outside... but there was no bird. Where the hell was the bird? I ran to the other side of the pool, Tweety's preferred spot.

I had already given the bird a name. I was in deep.

Oh, I'm sure you've got a better name for him, huh?

I started sprinkling cracker crumbs around his spot and into the shoe box where I had placed the towel, hoping he'd come to the crackers. I called to him, "Tweety! Tweety! Come here boy."

Oh my Christ. I hope my neighbors aren't watching.

I finally heard a small noise behind me. I looked back and saw...

Oh no!

Tweety's in the pool! That poor bird is going to drown!

Where's the net?

Jesus Christ, where the hell is the net?

Where is the goddamnmotherfucking net?!

The one time my husband actually puts something away and this is what he picks. The net was wedged under the deck and the detachable pole that it was firmly attached to was stuck under heavy tubing and other pool cleaning supplies.

Hang in there buddy! I'm coming.

Tweety was struggling but he seemed to be keeping his head out of the water.

I struggled to detach the net from the pole.

And struggled some more. I didn't need that fingernail anyway.

Finally! I turned back toward the pool with the net, ready to scoop up my bird and deliver him to safety...

And he had stopped moving.

NOOOOOOOOO!!!!

I scooped him up and frantically ran him to the shoe box. Ever so gently I laid him down in the towel-lined box,

"Come on buddy, wake up. Please wake up. Oh please, please wake up..."

I don't know what I was expecting: one of those Disney moments when the animal magically comes back to life?

Well, he didn't. I couldn't save him. I tried, but there was nothing I could do.

I couldn't save him.

And I cried.

Sitting next to my pool next to the wet carcass of an adolescent bird, I actually cried.

I couldn't save him.

Now that he was wet I could see the extent of his injuries. It was worse than I had thought. A portion of his wing was actually ripped away from his body and God only knows how long he had been like that: bleeding, without the ability to easily get food or water. No wonder he just sat by the pool, the poor guy was exhausted, disoriented and probably in shock.

I wouldn't have been able to save him.

I probably would have found him in the pool anyway, even if I hadn't chased the bird all over my yard. That's what I'm telling myself anyway.

Tweety is still in the shoebox, the cover closed to protect his remains, next to the pool where I left him. I think he deserves more than being flung out into the woods for the scavengers to get him. He deserves a proper burial. I didn't save him but I can do that for him.

Rest in peace, Tweety. I wish I could have done more for you, buddy.


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The death of a bird shouldn't hit me this hard, but it is. Perhaps given what I've been through recently I've become more fragile myself. Easily broken like a bird's wing.

However, if any one of you dares to inquire why I didn't jump in the pool to save the bird, as my husband did (and yet I let him live - I have no idea why), or ask why I didn't give the bird mouth-to-beak resuscitation , so help me God I will come through this computer screen and bitch slap you. Don't mess with me. I'm mourning.