The Ornithological Society of Doom

UPDATE: The poor bird died due to a lack of humanity.

There are times when a man studies the conduct of humanity and comes away persuaded that dogs are the only creatures qualified to hold public office. A dog will at least hear your complaint before ignoring it, while human beings have elevated ignoring people into a science and granted certificates for it.

Three days ago, I discovered a young crow, a fledgling, which is nature’s word for a bird too foolish to fly and too stubborn to die in private. It sat looking as pitiful as a Nevada politician caught near an accounting ledger.

Its feathers were puffed up, its eyes half-shut, and its general appearance suggested that life had already sent over a forwarding address. Now, I am especially fond of crows, because they are loud, judgmental, and conduct themselves like a committee of drunks arguing over stolen silverware, and this youngster was no exception.

The parent crows had stationed themselves overhead and screamed at me every time I approached. They did not scream in gratitude, mind you.

They screamed the way city people scream when they see a man fixing something without first obtaining three permits and an environmental review. I brought the youngster water, then checked on him throughout the day, worried about cats, hawks, and every other furry or feathered tax collector in the district.

Meanwhile, the crow parents contributed absolutely nothing except commentary. It is another trait humans and crows share.

By the second day, the bird looked worse. Weak and barely moving.

I figured the little fellow had about as much future as a snowball in a branding fire. So I loaded him up and drove him to Washoe County Regional Animal Services on Longley Lane.

To their credit, the people there practiced the rare modern virtue known as honesty. They told me plainly, “If you leave the bird here, all we can do is euthanize it.”

Now I appreciate that. There is comfort in some bluntness, but not in all bluntness.

A man can respect bad news delivered honestly. It is the professional optimists one must fear, the people who assure you everything is fine while the barn is actively burning behind them.

Not wishing to consign the bird to immediate execution, I gathered a couple of rescue numbers instead. One rescue was in Dayton, and the other is in Silver Springs.

The Dayton rescuer referred me to Silver Springs with the solemn gravity of a bishop transferring a difficult sinner to another parish. I called the woman there and explained the matter carefully.

She informed me that the bird was perfectly fine. Now this astonished me because the bird and I had both missed this development entirely.

She said the parents were caring for it. It was also surprising since I had been observing these parents closely, and their chief contribution was screaming obscenities while outsourcing all labor to me.

Then she told me, in so many words, that I ought to mind my own business and let nature take its course. Now, there is no phrase more beloved in modern civilization than the one that says it immediately proceeds to tell you what your business ought to be.

So I did as instructed. I returned the little crow to the yard beneath the aspen tree and left him there while his parents resumed their role as airborne critics.

And now we arrive at the moral portion of this account.

If tomorrow morning I awaken to black feathers and crow guts artistically spread across my lawn like some Gothic welcome mat, there will be a public discussion concerning wildlife rescue expertise in Northern Nevada. I shall become a one-person campaigner with the energy of a Baptist preacher and the vocabulary of a dockworker.

I have noticed that dogs, unlike people, never tell you to mind your own business when you are trying to help somebody. A dog may not know a blessed thing about wildlife rehabilitation, but he will at least stand beside you loyally while the situation collapses.

And in these times, that places him several rungs above humanity.