When I saw our cat carrying a bird in its mouth as I took my family out the back door this morning, I tried to redirect the attention of my children, but my oldest son had already seen what was happening by the time I thought of something to say. He rushed out into the grass, and grabbed the bird as it flopped along the ground.
He held the bird just right as he brought it back to show us. It was a baby mourning dove.
I put the bird in a tupperware container so that it wouldn’t jump free, and then took it a few hundred feet out, to some tall weeds at the edge of the woods. “It will be able to hide there,” I told my son.
As we walked downtown, we ran into one of my son’s teachers. “I saved a baby dove this morning, my son said. He told almost everyone we saw what he had done. He told them he was a hero.
When we arrived home, I told my son to go play upstairs for a bit while I cleaned up a mess downstairs. I did not tell him that I had found a pile of mottled feathers from an in immature mourning dove at the top of the basement stairs.