Last night, as I was walking across the back garden, I heard a small rustling noise at the foot of the basement stairs. There was a weak little finch in the leaves. I thought it was a good thing I found him because just then there was an orange streak behind me; the neighbour’s aggressive cat.
I cradled the finch in my hands and, remembering what the vet advised about the last bird we rescued, I put him into a cage in the garage to recover with a bit of soft blanket and a small dish of water.
I’m so sad to say that sometime during the night his little body stopped. I think he probably flew into the loft window and fell the three floors to the basement stair well. That’s a hard fall for such a little creature. This morning I wrapped him up in the bit of blanket and buried him under my favorite yellow rose.
This is how it goes sometimes.
Inside I poured myself another cup of tea, pulled back the curtains to let the sun in and watched Morgan and Milo play. C joined me and soon we were smiling again.