When I was a young boy all I wanted to be when I grew up was a Zoologist, or a Vet. I used to devour books on the natural world and became an avid reader of Gerald Durrell who for a short while, became my hero.
Despite being stuck in rural Buckinghamsire instead of sunny Corfu, I did everything I could to emulate him. Any given day would find me exploring the garden, searching for weird and previously undiscovered creatures. But for me the holy grail was to find a sick or injured animal and to nurse it back to health. It stood to reason that to show it's gratitude, the animal would befriend me and follow me wherever I roamed.
After months of hoping and wishing and praying I returned home from school to discover a bird with a broken wing, flapping it's way sadly across the front lawn. In an instant I realised that this was my time, my opportunity to fulfill a lifelong dream. I knew exactly what to do, I had run this scenario over and over in my mind and had planned for every eventuality.
I dashed to the shed, pushing my way past all the usual shed-based ephemera until I found my tool of choice - a large fishing net. Clutching the net, I rushed back to the front lawn, terrified that the bird would disappear. I had nothing to fear as the bird was still racing around the lawn, trying in vain to take flight. I launched myself at the running bird and covered it in the folds of the fishing net where it thrashed violently. I had a glimmer of self-doubt but quickly dismissed it. As a self-proclaimed naturalist I knew that I had to remain dispassionate. I must on no account start questioning my decisions, I was there to do a job.
I left the bird tweeting sadly under the weight of the net and rushed back to the shed. From within it's cob-webbed depths I retrieved a large cardboard box. Placing it gently on the ground, I hopped over the garden fence into the neighbouring stables and pilfered an arm-full of straw. I carefully lined the base of the box with the straw, pausing a moment to build up a defined nesting area at one end.
Next I found myself shovel in hand, digging great holes in the vegetable garden and filling my pockets with the earthworms I found there.From the kitchen I pilfered chunks of bread and a saucer. In the bathroom I stole a wad of cotton wool.
Back in the garden I continued to build what I considered quite a fine avian recovery room within the box. The earthworms were distributed liberally amongst the straw and the bread torn into small chunks and sprinkled over the surface.
I was only too aware that the biggest hurdle would be how to keep the bird hydrated throughout it's recuperation. Without a proper bird bottle or suitable pipette I would struggle to get the necessary fluids into the creature. If I was to leave a bowl of water I risked the bird accidentally drowning when my back was turned. Luckily, my extensive research had uncovered a solution.
Into the saucer I placed the wad of cotton wool and saturated it with fresh drinking water. This nifty trick would allow the bird to suck on the cotton wool in order to quench it's thirst, without the risk of drowning.
Back at the net I gently eased the bird into it's new home and closed the flaps of the box to secure it. As I walked softly to the shed, the bird was violently throwing itself around the box. This shook me a bit but I steeled myself, knowing that I had to be cruel to be kind. The bird would thank me later I was sure. Probably from my shoulder, which he would inevitably make his new perch. We would laugh as friends. We would stride through the village and people would turn and look on jealously at this unlikely friendship, formed between man & bird and forged through adversity.
To keep the worst of the elements at bay I cleared a space in the shed, dropped the box inside and closed the door.
I sat on the step outside the shed until it got dark, listening to the terrible sounds of the bird as it threw itself angrily around the box. A sick feeling grew in my stomach and my earlier resolve began to disappear.
In bed that night I lay awake, worrying about what I had done and fighting back tears of self-doubt. I was out of my depth and I knew it.
As dawn broke I eschewed the lure of breakfast and ran straight to the shed. As I approached I slowed and crept to the door. My ear pressed against the door, I listened intently and was relieved to hear no thrashing. All was calm, the bird had settled into it's temporary home and today we could begin treatment.
Hope rose in my chest as I unbolted the door and retrieved the box. I admonished myself for having had any doubts about how I had dealt with the situation. I had been decisive, proactive and professional. Now a true Zoologist, I opened the box.
The bird was dead, killed by a huge glob of cotton wool that was wedged in its throat.
