Animal Writings

By yesterday, the deluge in DC was in its third day. Basements were flooded, roads were closed, office buildings were without power. Including the one where I work. But I didn't get the memo, so I showed up. When I got there, building management and security personnel had their hands full, trying to pump water out of the basement, and restore basic services. In the middle of the building is a small courtyard. As I was making my way to the door, I noticed two guards looking out onto the courtyard, and overheard one saying to the other, "see, he's trying to fly but he can't."

I walked over. A dove was intermittently flapping her wings, but she could not fly. I asked the security guard what happened, He said the dove crashed into the window. The dove hobbled a bit. Then she stopped. She did not appear to be disfigured or have broken bones. Her partner looked on. (In a previous post I wrote about two doves who basically live in this courtyard.)

I didn't have my cell phone with me, but I recommended that the guard call the Virginia Wildlife Rescue League (WRL). Which he did. The WRL hotline currently is severely short-handed (and looking for volunteers), so the guard left a message and listened to the recorded instructions of what to do in the meantime. The main thing we had to do was keep the bird warm and dry, especially since it was raining. I happened to have a cardboard box and some paper towels in my car. I got them, and the guard set the box on its side, lined with paper towels, right next to the bird. I suggested getting an umbrella and positioning it over the bird and the box, so that a) the bird wouldn't get wet if she stayed in her current spot, b) the box wouldn't get soaked and collapse. The guard concurred. Then I went home.

Then I felt I should do more. I got an old towel, a pair of gloves, a cardboard cat carrier, and a golf umbrella. The towel and gloves in case we needed to move the bird, the carrier in case we needed to transport her, and as a backup for the other box, and the umbrella for protection from the rain. When I got back to the building, I didn't see the bird, or the box, or the guard. But another guard told me that the rehabilitator had come to take the bird, and that the other guard temporarily was at another building.

So probably things worked out. But I worry. So I called the WRL hotline a little while ago and left a message, apologizing for being a bother since they are so short-staffed, expressing my interest and concern in how the bird was doing, and asking if there was anything I could do for this bird or to prevent similar collisions in the future. I also will try and locate the guard tomorrow, when the building is re-opened, both to inquire about the bird, and to find out how I can get in touch with his supervisor to write a short note of appreciation.

We are compelled to help the fallen and the injured for many reasons. One is sympathy. It is why we are worried sick when a co-worker collapses and has to be rushed to the hospital. It is why our heart falls when we see a formerly robust friend stricken by long-term illness and unable to walk. Our paternal and maternal instincts may be another motivator. Companion animals in many ways bring out the parent in us. In the lobby of the "exotics" veterinary clinic a while back, I saw the most wonderful panoply of love on a mix of faces: the woman my age clutching and gently stroking the cockatoo sitting on her lap; the roughhewn man softly reassuring his iguana, whose tail stuck out the back of his cage, that everything would be fine; the young mother and her daughter, fighting back tears, hoping their guinea pig would be all right.

I also think of the passage in the Bible that says that God cares about the fallen sparrow. If we are made in the image of God, then we must care about the fallen sparrow also, and all fallen creatures, and all beings that could use our help. Yes, we should care about the fallen sparrow—and the battery-caged hen— period, God or no God, Bible or no Bible. But if you believe in God, and God represents supreme goodness and infinite love, and you can feel that love, and you can be a part of it, and it can be a part of you, it adds imprimatur and gravitas to our obligations; it adds a spiritual dimension to our connection and sympathy with the rest of Creation—from the mighty whale to the tiny sparrow. And even to the moth trying to get out your window. The astronomer Carl Sagan once opined that although we may not have the tools to measure it, a moth, simple as she may be compared to us, may delight in the freshness of a summer's night, and be disappointed and frustrated if that desire cannot be fulfilled. Just like us.