In which we attempt (however ineffectually) to be Good Samaritans and I realize my boyfriend is a bighearted softie.

Friday evening, as Steve and I were loading the car for a two-day climbing getaway to Elevenmile Canyon, we noticed a small, grayish something in the courtyard by my house. Closer inspection revealed it to be a tiny bird of indeterminate genre, still alive but obviously in distress. Both of us seemed to take it as a given that we could not simply drive away and leave the bird to die. While its death seemed inevitable - it was a mere baby and appeared to have fallen or been pushed from its nest - we knew that we had to do something to aid this struggling creature.

First, we tried move it into the lawn, thinking it would at least more comfortable and might be able to feed on worms or bugs or perhaps obtain some moisture from the grass. But we were afraid it would be attacked by one of the many cats in the neighborhood, and we couldn't bear to leave it to such a fate. We thought some more, then decided to place the bird in my fenced-in patio in a shoebox, lined with some soft material (a dishcloth seemed sufficient). We added a small container of water and another with assorted edible material that struck us as birdseed-like (specifically, some Passover hot cereal mix, some corn grits, and some seeds from the bottom of a bag of trail mix. Give me a break - it's not like I keep birdseed on hand for emergencies or something!).

Once we'd prepared this impromptu nest, Steve, far braver and less squeamish than I, gently picked up the little bird and placed it into the box. It settled itself into the dishcloth bedding without too much fuss, but seemed oblivious to the water and food. Steve moved it closer to the water, but it couldn't move enough to dip its beak into the container. So Steve held the bird by its back and tipped its beak downward, and it snapped at the water greedily. Then we tried dribbling some food towards its beak, but it didn't seem to know what to with the stuff so Steve held it up to the water a few more times and let it drink.

We talked about various courses of action, and determined that there was little more we could do unless we were willing to spend the weekend feeding the bird with an eye-dropper and nursing it back to health. Since neither of us felt sufficiently moved to undertake that act of compassion, we decided instead to cover the box with a mesh dome (which I use to keep flies off food when dining al fresco) and hope that at least we'd made the baby bird's last moments a little more comfortable.

As we drove away (after scrubbing our hands thoroughly with antibacterial soap), I felt a little sad, a little nauseous, and a little inadequate. I then promptly forgot about the bird until later in the weekend, when we were getting thundered and lightninged and torrential-downpoured off the rocks. I suddenly realized that if it was raining as hard in Denver (it was), our little birdie in the box would surely drown. As the rains continued with little respite, forcing us to break camp and return home in the wee hours of Saturday night, I thought again of the bird we'd so ineptly tried to help. Steve reminded me that it was sure to die, and that at least we'd shown it a little bit of care and comfort.

By Sunday evening, Golden had received almost 4 inches of rain and Denver, too, was drenched. When Steve finally drove me home, he entered the patio first and whisked the box to the dumpster, sparing me the sight of the dead and bloated bird.

I'm not sure why I'm writing about this. It wasn't a particularly complicated or moving moment, and we didn't do anything that anyone with a conscience and five minutes to spare wouldn't also have done. Unlike Steve, I wasn't even willing to touch the poor bird, though it seemed to respond positively to the warmth of Steve's hand. I didn't learn any brilliant or fundamental truths about life and death from the little bird, and it didn't bring me any deep insights about mortality, compassion, or anything else.

I guess the point is this: watching Steve so gently and patiently helping the bird to drink, trying to feed it, and making sure it was comfortable melted my heart and made me fall in love with him all over again. Thank you, baby bird, for showing me that soft and sweet side of my no-nonsense boyfriend. I'm sorry we couldn't do more to help you.

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[UCL]

Everything happens for a reason.