On Wings of a Dove

Non-Fiction by Andre’ M. Prinsloo

I remember waking up on a wet Saturday morning, around two or three years ago, to the sound of some commotion in my house. There was a thump, followed by a twittering as of small bones and feathers moving together, followed by more thumps. Curious, I got out of bed to investigate, and found my slinky, prowling ginger cat (then hardly more than a kitten) underneath the computer stand in my study. Between his little front paws was an even tinier creature, a terrified baby turtledove by the look of its puffed up little body and thin quivering beak. I shooed the cat away and retrieved the shivering animal to inspect the damages, and was relieved to find him largely uninjured. I bundled him up in an old T-shirt and set him down on my unmade bed, then set myself about the task of deciding what to do with this avian escapee. The first step was clear: I had to remove the philandering cat from the region as soon as possible. I found him skulking under our old railway suite dining table amid a few scattered feathers, and hauled him out gently by his torso. My immediate instinct was to be harsh with him, either by giving him a free dip in the pool or a sound hiding on the rump, but I have learned that to him hunting is a way of life, and he will never know any different. So I popped him out on the lawn and closed the door, after which I closed as many of the cat-friendly entrances to the house as possible. Even so doing, I was well aware that the intrepid cat cannot be held long from his desired location, so I hurried to the front lounge (more of a storeroom in our house) to find a safe haven for the bird by means of a small box of some kind. I settled for a solid-feeling shoebox and returned to my room, only to find my charge hopping around vigorously amongst my pooled clothes and various cluttered possessions, cheeping away happily and generally acting like an excited bantam rooster.

Feeling vaguely guilty at imprisoning so lively a creature, I put him in the box with his shirt and a small bowl of water, and secured the lid of the box with several lead weights after making a few breathing holes (at eye level, to provide something of a view for our adventurous guest). I then proceeded to discuss with my family what should be done about him, as he was clearly too young to fly, but my heart screamed at imprisoning such a perfect example of the freedom of birds. My mother seemed to think she had seen this very bird’s parents in the back yard next to the kitchen from time to time, and that we should put him in the yard at various intervals to see what may transpire. So thinking, I again relocated the unfortunate kitten (this time to my closed room), and set Bird down in the vegetable garden outside. Wondering what I would do when the time came to round up Speeding Steven again, I went back inside and took up a position near the kitchen window with my mother. Bird was charging back and forth through the foliage, clearing tomato and spring onion alike with the vitality of an Olympic hurdler, when what had to be his mother alighted on the telephone cables above (presumably summoned by his incessant chirping).

It is well known how parent birds will often reject their young once they have fallen from the nest, or come upon some other such misfortune, so the next few minutes were understandably tense. To our great delight, Bird’s mother soon swooped down from her position on the overhead cable, and mother and son began foraging together for food in the by now well-explored undergrowth. Mother met with more success than child, but he more than made up for that in enthusiasm. Well fed and having slowed down somewhat, the time came for sad goodbyes. Whether merely personifying an event in the human fashion or really witnessing a poignant moment, the sadness between the two birds was plainly evident to me. The chirping came to a halt, the fledgling seemed to sag, losing some of his puffing excitement, and the mother seemed to be trying to comfort him with her nuzzling head. After some time spent in this despondent yet endearing “embrace”, the mother flew off to roost once more and the son returned to his explorations, if perhaps with an air of defeat.

I went out to the yard and gathered him up a while later, my earlier question answered by his deflated semblance. He made little effort to escape, and I returned him to his box after releasing the poor cat, securing his temporary home with weights once more. It seemed to feel as if the same weights I placed on his box were placed on my heart that night, as I considered the bitter sadness of the situation I found myself in. Here was this perfect image of all that is innocent and good in our world; and due to the fault of nobody in particular, not even the cat, there was likely to be no hope for him. He would likely never be able to fly with only periodic visits from his mother, and to keep alternating between putting him in the yard and retrieving him again was not an option. Sooner or later there would be no-one at home; and what then? He could not live in a box for the rest of his life, and to release him into the yard would mean his death. Rejecting these thoughts of despair and hopelessness, I fell into a sleep plagued by dreams of the innocent suffering, while those who would help are forced to sit by and ponder the great ambiguity that is our situation.

When I awoke the next morning, thoughts of the previous evening forgotten, I checked on Bird to see if he was all right, then went to the kitchen to prepare him a breakfast of runny ProNutro. This he wolfed down with the expected gusto, and I put him in the garden again for his daily constitutional. His mother arrived again, and they engaged in the ritual of the previous day. However, that day I left him out a little too long, and when I went out later to collect him he was nowhere to be found. I searched all over the back yard, but in the fading light it became impossible to search properly. Feeling dismay drape its dismal cloak over me once more, I gave up for the night and settled for locking the cat in the room with me.  

At first light, the next morning, I went to the kitchen and peered through the window again, hoping to see a trace of avian activity. Nothing. My dismay grew to a gnawing dread and I went outside, determined to hunt for him until I found a sign, good or otherwise. As I parted the undergrowth and scanned the ground, a smudge of grey caught my eye in the far corner. There, beneath a fledgling peach tree, where the garden meets the original concrete floor, was my Bird, huddled against the cold of the night but otherwise perfectly fine. In a sudden joy that was almost exuberance I practically snapped him up off the ground and held him close to me as I made my way back inside, kitten meowing at my heels. He ate his breakfast with all of his usual enthusiasm, and everything was alright again.

But then I dropped him. I had him huddled in his shirt, and in his excitement at the prospect of a meal, he hopped straight out of my clutches and hurtled five feet to the floor. My heart seemed to plummet with him, and in a burst of fear that was like an implosion inside of me, I stooped to the ground and gently retrieved him. I could hardly believe my eyes when this bird –hardly more than a hatchling- simply looked around from my palm and continued his enthused chirping as if nothing had happened. I couldn’t believe my luck at finding such a hardy, vibrant young creature, who fell into my life at the jaws of a cat, yet escaped from this and multiple other formidable dangers unscathed. Keeping him was beginning to seem attractive, if somewhat selfish. It’s amazing how easily we can change our morals to justify something that we really want.

I kept bird inside for the rest of that day, my joy at his incredible feats of survival surpassed by my renewed fear for his safety. I sat with him in my room, like a child with a newly rediscovered prized possession; something to be treasured and guarded fiercely.

After giving him his supper, which was ProNutro again of course (not that he minded in the least), I put him to bed in his box, this time using only one weight to secure the lid. I reasoned that the cat had not attempted to interfere with him since he had been under my care, and the lid was beginning to sag from weight anyhow. I climbed into bed myself and fell asleep happy. Unsure of what to do with my charge over the next few days, granted, but happy nevertheless.

The next day was school, and I arose amid feelings of chaos and disarray, as those who rise early on a Monday morning are wont to do. I dressed for school in a hurry, and while in the process of tying my shoelaces I observed Bird’s makeshift roof was askew. With a feeling of dull anguish rising in my stomach, I hunted around my room for him, but he was nowhere to be found. A part of me knew then what had happened, as I’m sure you do now, and as I looked near my window I saw a feather on the sill. Feeling sick with apprehension, I went around the front of the house to the small courtyard attempt my window leads on to. As I passed the front porch a cluster of something grey and furry caught my attention, and with my heart on the dewy grass somewhere behind me I went over to investigate. It was one tiny wing.

With the morning seeming to have instantly turned grey and cold, I slowly walked back to the house. I carried on preparing for school, wishing there was something, anything I could do to change that little creature’s fate, but my heart was bitter with the knowledge that I could not. I had my chance to do right, to treasure my little piece of this world’s few beautiful things, and in an exemplary display of humankind’s failure to its subjects I suffered the consequences of iniquity.. My mind was a whirl of emotions as we drove to school that day, all of them bleak and sunless, and I spoke little of my pain to my mother.

I could not concentrate in my classes, and I failed my exam but I did not care. To me the greater failure was at home, strewn from my room to the front yard like a banner pronouncing my inadequacy. Too often do we set aside the important for the urgent, leaving ourselves to deal with sour regret afterwards when we inevitably fail those close to our hearts.

That was a lesson learned harshly that day, and for weeks afterwards as I had to watch Bird’s mother sitting expectantly on the telephone cable, seeming to follow me with an accusatory stare as I passed with my eyes downcast. Undoubtedly she did not quite know of the events that unfolded, but I felt deserving of any blame she or her maker could cast my way. I cannot put into words the depth of my suffering and self-hatred after that event, and to this day I feel the spikes of regret threatening to puncture my heart again whenever I think about what I had and lost, a creature of life entrusted unto me, yet doomed to a painful death under my watch, and why? Because I was too lazy to protect him. I cannot blame the cat, or nature, or the world at large. Indeed, the only sentient being responsible for murdering this child of creation was me. I’m sorry.

I may have other opportunities in my life to look after and nurture creatures entrusted to me, and I will do the best I can, but I will always remember the fate of one young bird that suffered for my lack of conscientiousness, and never again will I judge myself a worthy keeper before I have proven myself to be.

Andre M. Prinsloo, Age 18, contact princeoftheloo@yahoo.com

Copyright 2009 Andre’ M. Prinsloo

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Sictorius*Glorio*Mundi