Guest Post from Slim Randles

Thank goodness I can always count on one of my friends to supply me with an article when I need something new for my blog. Slim is a terrific writer, and even though I no longer publish his columns in the online magazine I used to manage, he still sends them for me to enjoy and share. Thanks, Slim.

When we first noticed the baby sparrow, here at the house, it saddened us all. He had fallen from his nest and was slowly walking around the front yard under the tree while his mother and father had an absolute fit.

We knew we were looking at a dead baby bird, as it was only a question of who does it, where it is done, and how long before it happens. Years of experience in these kinds of things have taught us the finality of a baby bird falling out of a tree. Would the end come from a cat, or from a raccoon wandering up from Lewis Creek, or a snake? One of the problems with being a baby bird is that almost everything with teeth wants to eat you, and if you can’t fly, there’s not much you can do about it. We learned that picking the baby up and putting him back in the nest wouldn’t work, so we were forced to just watch his timid movements around the yard and whisper to him, “I’m sorry, pal.”

You might think that the older we get, the tougher our shells become to these little natural tragedies, but it doesn’t seem to work that way. Maybe it’s because we now have children of our own, and grandchildren, too. Maybe that’s why it actually hurts more to see a helpless baby bird today than when we were 11 and riding our bikes on the river trails.

Back then we were bulletproof, flexible, and immortal. But we learned things over the years. We saw people our age die. We saw younger people die. We accumulated our own little collection of personal tragedies.

Then the baby found the drain spout. Yep, that little rascal hopped into the drain spout coming off the roof and had sense enough to stay in there, coming to the edge of his “cave” only for meals from his anxious mother. A week later, I thought I recognized him sitting on a tree branch, looking smug. He wasn’t in the drain spout and I didn’t see any feathers around on the ground.

We live in an age of small miracles.
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The Miracle Cat

We have this cat named Orca -- for obvious reasons -- and he has had a tough life for only being three years old. Of course, out here in the country the lifespan of a cat is much shorter than that of their city cousins. But we try to give them as much help as we can.

When Orca was just a kitten, he got into the engine of my husband's truck to take a nap and got caught up in the fan belt when my husband started the truck. Orca survived that, to the amazement of the farmer next door who came to help us get the cat out and to the vet who repaired the broken leg.

Last week, Orca disappeared late Monday afternoon. Well, actually we didn't know he had disappeared for sure until late Tuesday when he still had not come back to eat. He likes to go outside - preferring that to a litter box - and then there are all the moles and gophers and mice to hunt. But he doesn't often miss the feeding times with the other cats, so we started to worry that he met up with a coyote or a truck speeding down the road.

For three days we tried to keep the worry at bay and hold out a small hope that he might come back, but, by Friday, had to admit that probably wasn't going to happen.

Then late Sunday, we heard a mewing on the front porch, went to the door, and there was Orca. He sauntered in - as best he could saunter with a broken leg - went right to his food dish and asked for supper. He ate, then went to take a nap on our bed, as if nothing had happened.

We were in a state of shock for an hour or so, taking turns looking at him on the bed to make sure we weren't dreaming.

We weren't dreaming. Somehow he managed to suvive six days out there and didn't even look too malnourished. We couldn't see any other injuries, either, and he didn't seem to be in much pain so we didn't do an emergency vet visit, opting to take him in this morning.

Orca has a nasty, splintered break below the knee and a dislocated knee, so it is going to cost a lot to repair all that. We briefly considered not repairing it, but then we figured if this cat could survive a truck engine, another car accdent, and then being out in the wild for 6 days and avoiding coyotes and other predatory animals, he deserves the other seven lives he's got left.

That may not be practical, but sometimes it feels good not to be practical.