A Marital Parable Revealed
Into the midst of serious discussion
about what went wrong in the past and what will and will not be tolerated in the present so that our marriage could ascend into the future on bright wings, A baby wren fell while trying to fly, landing among last year’s leaves serving as mulch for waiting flowers. The Maine Coon cat in camouflaged nap, startled by this gift of the universe, immediately pounced. But the border collie, ever alert, charged the cat and took the bird in gentle mouth like a runner taking a victory lap. She settled Into her corner of the yard, released the bird, and watched. The little bird limped away before being caught again by dog with curious, cocked head. We knew our dog ate birds. Before we got the cat, we’d find birds dead in the backyard with her standing proud before them like a show dog before trophies when we’d discover the carnage, as if she’d saved us from squawking cowbirds or pooping pigeons, or brightly-hued cardinals. But it seemed she didn’t know what to do with this aviary appetizer too small to eat, too injured to play. I, too traumatized by certain death after spending all day on my father’s funeral, just shook and cried, paralzyed by the unfairness of it all-- a little bird, helpless, defenseless abandoned by Mama nowhere to be found-- with hungry cats and dogs all around until you calmly went over and rescued the little bird from the dog who let you seeming relieved you took it off her paws. You held the poor scared thing forever in your hand, stroking it ever so gently until its breathing relaxed. You saved it from certain death But now what? It was getting colder, and it was wet from the dog’s mouth, one leg seemed injured and perhaps a wing. Had we just prolonged the inevitable? I made a box to put it in, which, in the past, always meant a dead bird in the morning. I found a little dish for water, some seed. I put the cat inside, then the dog, then we put the box in the fading sun with some measure of hope. Was it too little to eat on its own? We weren’t about to regurgitate worms. What now? You MacGyvered a tall shelf on which to place the wooden box beneath the tree with the nest while I made the bird a blanket with some of the dog’s shedding fur. Then I went inside to continue work on the impending memorial service, praying for the bird’s best. Then the miracle happened. You turned to put the bird on the shelf, and it was out of the box, hopping on the table where we’d sat at the beginning. He spread his little wings and flapped, flying a few feet, though sprained. He was easily caught again so still at risk. You helped him settle down in the leaves beneath the bushes for the night. One of our guests unknowingly let the cat out that night. The next morning she was at the window like always, and I expected the worst. The bird was nowhere to be found. Pity, but that’s the way it is. Then you came in later that morning to say you’d seen the little wrens flocking as family to the feeder with one flying not as well or as far and landing wonkily on one leg. Seems our bird is yet alive Thanks to all your work that hopefully can transfer to us now. © 2007, Tess Lockhart. All rights reserved. . |