I was walking late this afternoon and thought about the times in my life I have been traumatized by dead or dying birds. I realize in the scheme of the universe this is not great psychic injury but it's interesting.
I have a clear memory of running home from school in the rain when I was about ten. I was barefoot and about three seconds past the point of impact, I realized I had stepped on something with the consistency of a wet rubber ball. I looked back and saw a fledgling bird on the sidewalk, apparently washed from his nest. I hope he was dead before I hit him. Weird that I would remember that for so long.
Last summer, a dove was sitting in front of my garage door on one of the hottest days. It didn't look healthy and didn't fly away when I approached so I tried to shield it from the sun with an umbrella. I moved the umbrella a couple times over the course of the afternoon and the last time I went out, the dove was dead. I buried it under the maple tree.
Yesterday when I was mowing the lawn, I ran over a recently dead, or at least I hope it was dead, small bird. Parts went in every direction. I went to get Regis who was puzzled as to what part he played in this drama: I wanted him to pick the pieces up so I didn't have to worry about running over it again. Which he did.
We had a parakeet for a pet about ten years ago. One day, almost right before my eyes, he dropped off the perch and lay flat out on the floor of the cage. He wasn't the best pet, at least not a very interactive pet. It's sort of an unnatural life for a bird so I don't think I'd do that again. Same for gerbils and hermit crabs. All of those small pets come to very bad ends with me.
Well, that's life in the fast lane. Nothing but parties and bling here at our house. I think I'll pour myself a glass of box wine and watch Jon Stewart for some real news. It's a couple days late but what the hell.