Yesterday Abby and I came upon an injured bird on our walk back home from the park. It was a big bird, smaller than a crow but about the same size as a pigeon.
We watched her hobble against the curb, scuttling in front of us in a panic to flee. She could only use her wings for balance and did so like a tipsy barfly the closer we got to her. I thought she had a broken wing until I caught a peek of her neck: pink, bloodied and in bad shape. Something tried to "ate" her.
Abby and I walked home with a promise to get her some help somehow.
I had to pick up Grayson from preschool first but thought that was good because he could help me get her safely into a box without harm.
He held the box while I scooted her gently into it with the lid. The whole thing went down without a hitch. Grayson said we should name her Pokey because she was so slow.Thank heavens we are not all named based on our behaviors. I'd be called "Circles," "Mugface," or "Sink Stander."
We then drove Pokey to an animal clinic that takes wildlife. It was a few miles out of town and I didn't hear much from the box with Pokey in it so I was worried.
She was okay when we got there, thank goodness.
A vet tech came out to retrieve Pokey and thanked us. We weren't allowed back even though all of us had eager faces and a Nikon. They weren't biting.
We settled for taking far too many pictures in their front yard instead.
I called later to find out how Pokey was doing. The secretary said she was a dove that had most likely been attacked by something. Her lungs sounded bad so they gave her antibiotics and already released her back to my neighborhood.
All that worrying about Pokey who (hopefully) was eating grass seed from my neighbor's yard....far away from the black and white cat I spied slinking around on that exact same curb.
Suspect if you ask me.