The Bird In The Window

I saw the small quick shadow even before Jon called from the kitchen that there was a bird in the house.

Bud heard the bird the night before.  Being a Boston Terrier, it’s what he does.  He kept going back to the wood stove,  ears at attention, head up, staring at the stove pipe.

I couldn’t hear anything and kept opening the door to see if a bird was in the cold stove.   It was already late, but by the time we went to bed, I thought I heard a fluttering in the stove pipe.

Even if I didn’t I’ve come to trust Bud.

There was nothing to do but wait of the bird to come down the pipe and land in the box of the stove.  So I left the stove door open a crack and went to bed.

Whether it’s a bat or a bird, I do the same thing when one is in the house.  I close all the interior doors  and open the doors that lead outside.  They don’t want to be in house, they’re just trying to get out.

I’ll put a glove on if its a bat, incase it lands and I can grab it.  But for a bird I use my bare hands.

The little bird in our house yesterday morning seemed unusually calm.  She  was perched on the dining room light when Jon first saw her.  Then she flew from one window to another fluttering her wings against the glass, thinking it was a way out.

When she landed on the living room window, carefully tucked between the String of Hearts and Mother of Thousands plants, I approached her calmly.

It’s ok, I said quietly, almost to myself.  And instead of being nervous that she’d fly again before I could catch her, I approached her as if what we were doing was the most natural thing in the world.

She all but jumped into my hand when I reached for her.  And there she sat for a few moments, before flying off through the open front door.

I began think that maybe she’d spent enough time in the night-quiet house to get used to it.  I didn’t find any droppings, but maybe she  found some crumbs  the kitchen floor to eat.  Or perhaps she slept perched close to the ceiling, on the dining room light.

I only let Bud and Fate out of their crates when the bird was safely outside. Neither showed any sign that they were aware that there had been a visitor in the house.

I’m not sure what kind of bird it was.  Maybe a wren, she was  the right  size and shape, with softly mottled brown feathers.

There was something in her calm that spoke to me.

Which makes me think it wasn’t me reassuring her after all.  Maybe she was letting me know that she trusted me, and was asking me to help her find her way back out.