When you've been a parent for awhile, in my case 9 years, you develop the ability to decipher a kid's scream as to whether there's a true emergency or not. That's why when my oldest daughter yelled through the window, "Daddy, come out here, quick!", I could tell nobody was severely injured or about to be severely injured. So, 15 minutes later I strolled out the front door to check out the situation.
The younger girls huddled around my oldest daughter, as she was holding something small in her hand. As it turns out, it was a baby bird. Not a cute baby bird, but a baby bird that was still kind of alien-looking with only a few formed feathers. It was moving though.
"Daddy, look, it's a baby bird!" she held it up so I could see better. I think it fell out of that tree over there. I am going to take care of it."
I informed her that it was going to die because that's what usually happens in nature when a baby gets separated from it's mother. I went back inside to answer a phone call, and the three bird caretakers remained outside, discussing what to do.
They came to the conclusion they needed to dig up worms to feed it, which they did. However, the worms were too big that they found. They would need to be cut. Hence, I looked out my window to see my 4 year-old daughter running through the yard holding a steak knife.
Being the experienced, responsible parent that I am, I instantly shouted to her, "How many times have I told you to be careful when you're running with a steak knife?"
Ok, I didn't really say that. I made her hand it over to me in exchange for a pair of child-safe scissors. Father of the Year.
The rest of the afternoon, the kids sliced and served up worms to the ugly little creature. I didn't want them to get their hopes up, so I kept saying, "You guys are doing an awesome job...but it's going to die."
Fast forward a couple more hours, and I returned home from doing a few errands and my wife informed me that the bird finally died. There were tears shed, I think only by my oldest daughter who took the passing personally. By the time I saw her though, the tears had stopped and she seemed back to normal. And that's when I said, "Honey, I can't believe you let that little birdie die. It's all your fault. You failed big time."
Relax, I'm kidding. But I have been calling her "Bird Killer" since then.
This morning, we got around to burying the carcass. We went out to the yard and I asked if anybody would like to say anything. I explained again that things like this happened in nature all of the time and that's just how it's supposed to be. It does amaze me though how kids become attached so quickly to something. They informed me that they'd even named the ugly thing.
So this morning after breakfast, which ironically consisted of fried eggs, we gathered in the backyard for the burial. My girls and the neighbor boy huddled around the small hole and they sadly placed the nasty lifeless body in it. My oldest daughter appeared a little forlorn, but not overly emotional. The other three clowns kept commenting on how gross the bird was.
And that's how the story ends - in a shallow grave. Which of course, I fully expect our dog to dig up shortly hereafter. I fear that was not the last we'll see of that bird. It'll probably end up deposited on our couch cushion by our curious canine.
By the way, the name given to the baby bird by my kids?
"Lucky"
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