Jack came running in to me this afternoon as I was typing an email. Mommy, I have to show you something in the backyard. It's something sad. It turned out to be a dead (or so we thought) bird. Shelby had grabbed it. Then - it breathed! It was wet and red, but it had been raining, so I picked it up to see if it was bleeding or not, and how badly injured it was. It sad there in my hand, blinking up at me. Now there was part of me that said I should just put the poor thing down and walk away, let nature take it's course. Or perhaps that was Shelby's thoughts I was overhearing. Whatever, with tiny little Mr. Birdie sitting quietly in my hand and blinking up at me, passively, there was no way I could drop it into the gaping maw of my suddenly evil dog. (Actually in this, as in everything else, she showed her wonderful personality. She just sat quietly by waiting for me to be done looking at her great accomplishment, patiently waiting for it to be dinnertime!) So, I shooed Shelby into the house, found a safe place for birdie to lie, and came into the house.
Then, it occurred to me to email Uncle Hugh, the ornithologist. He, unfortunately, made the off-hand suggestion that I could find a shoebox for it and possibly nurse it back to health. SO here is Mr. Birdie in his nice new home, having been recently plied with drops of sugar water.
Alas, there is no happy ending to our story. Jack and I went off to take a nap, and while we were sleeping, Mr. Birdie entered his eternal rest.