Maybe for my next tattoo, I'll have someone translate "Well, that didn't go as planned," into Elvish or Runes or Klingon. I didn't expect to still have to provide care for a grounded blackbird as of today. Last night, Mr X put our damsel in distress (I'm going with female for expediency's sake -- we really do not know either way) in the chokecherry tree in the back yard, and I'm fairly sure we both expected her to have flown off at first light, back to her own kind. Instead, she was on the ground, on her back, being interrogated by up to three dogs. So he scooped her up, and set her on the hot tub cover. When I came out after my shower, getting ready for my first of the month sales meeting, the Mr asked me to clear off the patio table so he could set the giant dog cage there, giving the bird a safe space where the dogs couldn't reach her.
When I returned from Fort Collins at lunchtime, the bird, who I have a deep desire to name "Stella," and I don't know why, was perched on one of two broomsticks that ran through the bars of the cage, sitting under the canopy of a beach towel over top of the cage. She had only the plastic bowl that once held softened cat food kibble in the cage with her. Being the person that I am, I immediately started bringing things to her. I brought the bread pan full of water I'd tried to offer her when she first arrived. I googled suggestions for snacks, and then brought her some Manchego cheese, sunflower seeds, and blueberries. The blueberries were her favorite. I kept popping outside, checking on her, chasing off the dogs who were determined not to let her out of their sight. I sat in a chair and talked to her about ten different times, for a few minutes each. I promised her that if she could just remember how to fly, she was welcome to go back to being a wild bird. But each time that she attempted to jump between the perches, and flailed backwards, landing in her own poo, I was forced to accept that she may need more time to get her act together. Whatever happened to her, if it was a single event, seems to have broken or removed the longest of her tailfeathers. They are unusually short, and we are coming to suspect that this is the reason she has no balance when she tries to fly. Also, either from "The Event" or from the subsequent thrashing in the trees and cage, her left wing sags just a little bit from where it seems it should be. She doesn't act like she is in acute distress, like it's freshly dislocated and causing her pain. But then again, she doesn't seem to be able to lift her body in flight.
Many times in our lives together, the Mr has rescued animals and then disappeared for weeks or months. I've been left to care for the temporary or permanent additions to our family in his absence. I'm thinking of Lazarus the puppy (who was "the dead one" from the neighbor's surprise litter, born on tax day 1997). Of Torden the kitten (who came into the house from the back yard when lightning struck the house across the street from our back yard neighbor, although it was a few months later before I was left alone with him for several months). Of Edmond the baby squirrel (who lived one short week under my inexpert care -- I still regret not figuring him out sooner). Of Accidental Agnes the Adventurous Anole (for whom I had to learn how to handle feeder crickets and to remember to water her every single day, which was a challenge for my lupus-brain). Or of Leno the fledgling blue jay (although, thankfully, that time Mr S-P was home, just working long hours). The man is due to go away for two weeks on the trip we knew he was taking when he came back to this house last fall. I have no idea what I'm going to do if Stella hasn't remembered how to bird by then. I do not want to keep her as a captive. I would much prefer if she could live like a wild creature in the Park.
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