A few weeks ago, Greg and the neighbor girl happened upon a baby bird that was hopping through the back yard. I had them watch it from a distance and said not to bother it. The bird didn’t look injured and was hopping and then flapping it wings. It seemed like it was a day or two away from flying if the cats didn’t find it.
Lunch was served and we went inside, the bird forgotten.
Mom left to run some errands and Greg and I stayed home. I was vacuuming the living room when I noticed Greg trying to get into the doors leading from the deck. It takes him two hands to get the door open and one of his hands was occupied with holding an orange, plastic beach bucket. So without both hands, he was just yanking on the door handle, yelling at me though the glass. With various hand gestures and yells back and forth, I finally gave in and ended up turning off the vacuum and opening the door for him, warning him not to bring in a bucket that was probably filled with dirt and worms.
He said, “The baby bird is sick,” and showed me the contents of the bucket. It contained one, very dead baby bird.
I said, “Greg, this bird is pretty sick. I don’t think he is going to make it.”
Greg looked very sad. I immediately said, “You know what… I’ll give him a drink of water and put him in the front yard in the shade. Maybe he will feel better.” Greg agreed with my medical assessment and treatment. I sent him on his way to the back yard.
I gave the bird a little water and put him and his bucket in the shade in the front yard.
A few hours later, Greg happened upon the orange bucket.
Greg came running in with the bucket and said, “Dad! The bucket is empty! The bird flew away.”
And I said, “He must have felt better and flew off!”
I sent Greg back outside to rinse out the bucket with the garden hose.