Yesterday afternoon, I was headed back from a fruitful day at thrifting and Shug called me to let me know a bird had flown into our back glass door and looked a little out of it.
When I got home, the bird had flapped its way over to the corner of our yard and wouldn't move. I thought/hoped/kidded myself that it was probably just stunned and needed a little time to chill out before it collected its birdie wits and flew away.
Three hours later the poor thing was still parked in the same spot and when I tried to scare it to see if it could fly, its wing stuck out at an absolutely broken angle. Crisis.
I Googled "Triage for Broken Birds" or something to that effect and was directed to a Wildlife Rehabilitation Specialist here in town. Girlfriend was not only a Wildlife Rehabilitation Specialist, but also a Royal Bitch. Apparently, the county had recently cut funding for Wildlife Rehab due to the recession, and although she thought this bird was in peril and needed care, she was just NOT going to assist me with my "situation." Then she hung up on me. Thanks. 'Preesheatecha!
Shug and his razor sharp powers of deduction thought to drop the bird off at the local Aviary. This should make sense, since an aviary is a bird refuge, sanctuary, place where bird specialists usually hang out, etc.
We drove the bird over there only to be met with wide-eyed perplexity...THEY couldn't take an injured bird, not even if it's a mourning dove, an indigenous migratory bird on the State's protected species list! Sorry, but they only specialize in shilling cotton candy, guided tours, and bird pamphlets! How SILLY for us to think they would take an injured bird off our hands!
The damn sun was setting on our good intentions to help this broken dove. I was told that I needed to drop the bird off at the State Department of Wildlife Resources, but it was pushing 9pm and the offices had closed hours before the start of our escapade.
I put the dove in the garage with the birdseed left over from Sissy's wedding. Shug had decided the bird "had better live" since we'd already driven around town without resolution.
I was terrified that the dove would die overnight, so this morning I couldn't bring myself to open its little box to see if it was alive. I called Shug at work to see if he had opened the box before he left for work...The bird had been alive when he'd checked on it. That was good enough!
I drove the box with the hopefully-still-living dove out to the Department of Wildlife Resources. And wouldn't you know THEY aren't in the injured bird business either!!!!!!! I was getting a little down about the situation and the probably-dead-bird I was toting around town, but the dove must have sensed my defeat at that moment and decided to attempt to escape from her box. I might be a city-girl, but dead doves usually don't try to escape from boxes with holes poked in them!
I was given a phone number and a kick in the ass out the door. Gross! An injured bird?!?! How could I even THINK to bring that into the office of Wildlife Resources. What kind of idiot does something like that?!?
I called the quickly scribbled number and the oldest, crackliest, smoker's voice answered. This man lived waaaaaaay out on the West side and took in injured birds out of the kindness of his bird-loving heart. Did he get compensation from the State? No. Did he ask for compensation from the people dropping off the birds in peril? No. Did he have the longest fingernails I've ever seen? Yes.
He carefully opened the box while about a hundred birds squawked and tweeted and pooped in cages behind him. The little dove looked up at both of us, nestled carefully in her paper towels.