They All Come to Me

Bryson says I'm like Snow White. All the animals come straight to me, especially the wounded or broken ones. There was that wounded crow I rescued on campus. Then there was that hurt pigeon under the pier being attacked by a seagull, which I chased away so I could save the pigeon.

In California, we have sparrows and seagulls (nice ones as well as the bastards). In Thailand, they have these largish black birds with bright yellow beaks and feet, and white patches on their wings. They're everywhere, and I find their song quite pleasant. It's varied, like that of a mockingbird.



The other day I was walking back to our room to change into my bikini when I heard an outraged squawking from above. I looked up, then down. A baby bird was at my feet, flailing around, and the squawker must have been his parents. He was nearly a fledgling, but was still to young to be on his own. I stood there, unsure of what to do, but then an approaching dog made the decision for me. I scooped it up, and went to find Bryson.

The owner of the place we were staying was the compassionate sort, and he helped us determined what to do. He said that the nest wouldn't be on the roof, but way up high in the palm tree, an impossible climbing distance. We ended up putting him in a box full of leaves, with a dish of water and half a banana, and placing him on the roof of a hut in viewing distance from his parents.

We cheacked on him a few times, but yesterday, when we left to go here, to Koh Tao, the box was gone. I was wary, but pretty certain that a nice old man had decided it would be better to bring the box inside and take the bird under his wing.