Life Lessons

I rescued a baby bird the other day. I work in a restaurant, and while passing through the kitchen on my way to find coffee, a chef asked me, "Is this your bird?" Confused, I looked to his hands, expecting to find a decapitated chicken carcass. His hands were empty, palms up and open in an expression of helplessness. I followed his gaze upwards to the ceiling, where, sure enough, there was a lively bird fluttering aimlessly, bumping along the broken ceiling like a moth against a light bulb.

"How'd he get in here?"

"Dunno."

"How're we gonna get him down?"

"Dunno."

"Hope he doesn't poop in the food."

"Hmmph."

My search for coffee was triumphant, and I sipped it back in my office while on hold with 311. The first brilliant New York City representative told me that the city would only come to rescue the bird if it were injured or foaming at the mouth. In other words, we either have to throw a stone at it, or feed it alka-seltzer. She transferred me to animal control, and in the process, my call was disconnected. The second representative did not waste my time as much, and readily--and successfully-- transferred me to animal control. Their response was blunt and concise. "A bird? We don't do birds." And on to the Yellow Pages.

I had no idea there were so many animal trapper companies in Manhattan, considering the only animals in Manhattan are rats, squirrels, and little dogs adorned in booties and Burberry ponchos. A dozen phone calls later, and I had yet to find a single person interested in helping us trap the bird.

And more about the bird... This bird was obviously not a New York street bird, meaning that it wasn't a pigeon, or a boring brown finch. It had a slight figure, like a finch, but its belly was a striking yellow. It seemed too clean, too pretty to be from the streets. How did someone's pet finch get into our kitchen?

Unanswerable questions aside, I finally found a trapper to come and net the bird. $375, just to catch it. As I get up to share the news, an extern from the kitchen runs up to me and tells me that one of the porters, Diego, had finally caught the bird! I run down to the kitchen and ask where it is. Diego had placed it in a short, wide box, with crudely punched holes. I felt a dirty grit on the outside of it, and immediately resolved to find a better box.

Finding a better box was easy. Trying to transport the bird into a better box was impossible. I locked myself in our small office bathroom with the old box, the new box, and the determined, frightened bird. The thought of touching the bird scared the crap out of me, not because I was afraid of a disease, but because I knew how light, and fragile it would feel, and how there would be a blast of scratching claws and punchy feathers in my loose fist. This fear prevented me from getting a firm grasp, and whoosh went the bird, flying crazily around the bathroom. It bumped into the light, failed to find footing on the door, and dove for cover behind the toilet. I called in for back up, so then there were two of us trying to catch this bird in his futile dash around the bathroom. He plummeted behind the garbage can, which was when I finally caught him. I gingerly placed him in his new box, which offered cleanliness, height, and an abundance of breathing holes.

The bathroom encounter left me so frazzled that my hands shook visibly. His frantic dips and swoops had my heart going at such a rate, that I was afraid we'd both die from arrhythmia. This bird obviously had guts and stamina, and after spending time with him in close quarters, I positively determined that not only was he not a street bird, he was not even an ordinary pet bird. With that in mind, I set out to find him a better dwelling place, and began to consider what fun it might be to adopt this bird.

Petco, which is located around the corner from where I work, is the Walmart of pet stores, that is, if Walmart was overpriced. It's huge and has everything. But you do not go there for quality service. I picked out a little pink cage for transporting birds, as well as a blue water dish with help from a Petco employee. He said that if I brought the bird back, he'd be able to tell me what kind of bird he was. It sounded good to me, so I headed back, prepared to transfer my new bird friend into his new home without fucking up as badly as I had before.

This time, I reached my hand bravely into the dark box, found him trying to fly out of the box, and cautiously repositioned him into my hand. From there, I adeptly inserted him into his pink kingdom, complete with newspaper (the Onion) lining. I used the extra newspaper to cover his cage, and carried him back to Petco.

Once there, I could not find a soul. Could everyone have possible dematerialized in the past 20 minutes? I stared at anyone who passed by in a Petco polo, looking needy and helpless, yet everyone ignored me. I could not remember what the gentleman who had originally helped me looked like, although I think he had a grill. "Excuse me, may I please speak to the gentleman with the grill?" was a little to outrageous for me to ask, so I accepted my plight as the silent-pleader, and hoped that someone would finally take notice of me. A gentleman in the fish department identified the bird as a canary, which I found preposterous. I mean, here was this finch, obviously a finch, with brown feathers and a yellow plume, stuck in our kitchen. But wait, the brown feathers actually look green. And the plume was a canary yellow. And canaries are finches, after all. Another Petco employee that I was able to corner concurred that it might be a canary, and was, at the very least, a finch. We went about the aisles looking at food, the perfect cage, a cuttlefish bone, mirrors, and various bird toys. She told me that the bird would require perches of different sizes so as to prevent arthritis in the future. She examined the bird through his ridiculously small cage, and determined that he was just a baby, but that he seemed to be in good health, as his eyes were clear, his feathers weren't spotty, and there was no evidence of diarrhea.

Happy with the determination of his kind, and glad to hear he was healthy despite the terrible trauma of the day, I headed back to work, and gave a quick call to my mom.

"Do I want a canary?"

"No."

"But, I rescued it, and it's really adorable and I think I'm already in love with it."

"No. You have cats--it won't work."

"I still want to take him home, but you're right. Okay, bye."

My new resolve was to give the bird up to the chef who wanted it originally; the one who first pointed out the bird to me. I shared this news with people who asked about the bird's well-being and where it was headed next, and they all retorted with the same question: Are you sure he'll take good care of it? Their questions and doubt inspired me to ponder his laid-back attitude, the laziness of his eyes, and his kitchen lifestyle. While I had my doubts, I thought he would take care of it. But I was more confident that I would be a better guardian for this little, lost bird. The chef wanted to buy the bird an avian mansion. I wanted to buy it the perfect-sized cozy cage, complete with those funny bird toys I saw at Petco. He wanted to buy it fellow, feathered friends. I just wanted to see this bird relax and be happy again.

I continued to think about it, and after another talk with the chef, I was confident that he would take care of the bird. While he finished up his shift, I sat at my desk, with the bird showcased in front of me. I cooed to it, and whistled made up songs. He chirped back a little, too, although I'm not sure whether we were having a conversation, or if he were just barking commands or concerns like, "Why is my cage pink?" and "Please get me out of here!" Even in his confined but open space, he still struggled maniacally to escape. I covered his cage with newspaper, comforting him with the cool darkness of a censored world. As he settled down, I felt a palpable bond between us. To be honest, I fell in love with him before I even opened up the first dirty box. But our run to Petco together, and seeing him in the cage that I bought for him, cemented my affection for him. And I empathized with him. I mean, he had become a "him" after all. To be small, and vulnerable, and lost in a world that is so big, confusing, and unkind. Who has not felt like a little finch trapped in a kitchen? All he wanted was a safe place to perch. I could certainly relate.

Suddenly, the chef came in and took the bird away. He quickly covered the cage in a jacket, to keep it warm, and left. I sat dumbfounded, amazed that I had not been able to say goodbye, and wondered if it were perverse that I felt the need to memorialize our parting. I quietly cried, pitiful single tears sprouting from each eye. At least there was a happy ending for the bird in sight, even though my heart was broken, and regret was already taking hold.

By the time I got home that night, I cursed myself for not keeping the bird. I felt strongly touched and affected by the bird's trauma from the day, as if it were my own. I was depressed and worn out, feeling lost and tattered.


The next day, I ran into the chef. "How's Diego?" I asked. He had named the bird after its rescuer. "Not so good," he mumbled.

Oh shit. Putting on a brave face, and attempting indifference, I said, "Don't tell me he died."

"Well. When I got him in the big cage I bought, I saw that his wing was broken. He wasn't able to fly, and just sat on the bottom of the cage. By the time we went to bed, he was covering his head with his wing. And when I woke up this morning, he was in the corner."

"Are you going to take him to the vet?" I interrupted.

"No, he's already left us, you know?" He's already dead, get it? He died last night, in the bottom of his bird palace.

"Why didn't you try to take him somewhere, like a vet?"

"We were going to take him to a bird store, but when we called to see how late they were open, it turned out that they had moved to Brooklyn." Brooklyn: kryptonite for this Manhattan-isolationist.

I shrugged my shoulders, managed a smile, and said, "We tried." Yes, we did. Maybe that would make us both feel better, alleviate the guilt that we both must be feeling? I don't know if it worked for him, but it failed miserably for me. I dropped my binder and told a colleague that I needed a minute. I locked myself in the bathroom, the same bathroom where I struggled to put the bird into the cleaner box, and sobbed.

First was the anger. Why did I leave the bird with him? Why didn't he take it to the vet? Why didn't I just take the bird?

And then the guilt. I should have taken him to the vet. What if I am the one who broke his wing?
And finally, the thick fleece of sadness. I tried so hard to help him, did all I thought I could. I might as well have just dumped his cage into a trash can. His last day was full of confusion, frustration, terror, and panic. He died alone in a gigantic, brand-new cage, in an over-priced Gramercy loft. They were sleeping when he died.

I would expect that not many people would have such a strong reaction to a bird's death. But it destroyed me. I needed him to be okay, and he died. And I could not do anything for him. In a small way, it felt like losing my father all over again.

Admittedly, I am not immune to anthropomorphizing. If my cats were just cats, life would be pretty boring. And I am inclined to love animals, with the added twinge of my sex's instinctual mothering tendencies. I would still like to think that there was something greater there. That the bird was really more than just a bird. His life meant something, his outrageously random appeareance in our kitchen was not just a fluke.

There must be a life lesson in this.

I'm just not sure where or what.