Oboe’s luck ran out tonight. Duncan finally caught him. We took him to the vet and they admitted him. He needs pain meds, antibiotics, tube feeding, x-rays, and I forget what else. He might have a broken wing. He’s got rattling sounds in his airways. His breathing is rapid. He’s in pain.
I always knew Duncan might catch him, and lately I’d been feeling it more than ever. But I guess on some level they seemed like Tweety and Sylvester, and Sylvester never won.
Even though I knew it was a possibility that his life would be cut short by Duncan, or by some other household calamity, I had thought it through and I had decided it was better that Oboe have a shorter happy life than a longer boring one.
There was no question, Oboe loved his life. He loved flying. He loved being part of the action. He loved his relationships. He was one happy, exuberant, spunky little bird.
It’s a lot easier to feel good about the “quality over quantity” rationalization when your bird is flying freely and happily around the house than when he is gasping and quivering and broken-winged in your hand.
I really love that little bird. If he makes it through this, things are going to change.
Here he is on a happier day.