The little finch

Yesterday I tried to save a bird. I hope I did. He was the sweetest little thing.

I picked him up--he couldn't fly, only spun in tight circles on the ground--and he nestled

in my hand. His little feet gripped my thumb and I sheltered his unbelievably light body

from the wind with my other hand.

I met an old woman who told me he was a finch. Finches like thistle seeds, she said. She

put a pinch of them in my hand and wished me well, but the finch didn't eat them.

I became fiercly protective of my little finch (yes, I thought of him as mine, now) and told

myself I'd do anything to save him. I locked Kamilla out of my room (she yowled and pawed

at my door like a wild thing) and decided to take the finch to the vet. Surely they'd know

what was wrong with him.

Emilie drove us to the vet and a rather unsympathetic Dr. Sheila said "it's probably a neurological problem... there doesn't seem to be any broken bones... but he doesn't want to

use his legs." She concluded with "I'd be happy to euthanize him for you!" She must have seen my horror, because she quickly offered "or you could call Pacific Wildlife."

Back at home, I called Pacific Wildlife and put the finch in his coffee filter box with his thistle seeds and one of my socks for him to warm himself. The bond was getting stronger and stronger. I love animals, of course, but this was an urgent sort of love. He HAD to get better. I put droplets of water on his beak and he tried to swallow them, but eventually they just fizzed in the corners of his beak. I just let him rest and waited for P.W to call.

Within 40 minutes I was in Morro Bay at the Pacific Wildlife center. They took the finch, took down all the information I had, and a nice young lady told me I could call back to check on him if I wanted. I did want to, but the fear of receiving bad news would devastate me too much. Maybe I'll give it another day.

As I got in my car, I realized they still had my sock. I was glad.