Invisible Women

The Little Bird That Could

It is true that the little bird had lost nearly half of its left wing after the dog had had her pleasure with it. The man did all that he could to salvage the small bits of cartilage, pressing chunks of loose flesh back into the bone, hoping it would stick like putty if only he applied enough pressure for a long enough period of time.

He drove. He drove knowing that it wasn’t safe for him to be driving while holding a dying bird in his lap, pellets of muscle staining his pants, but he was careful, and he knew that if he waited, the bird would not survive. For this, he was a kind man. It would be impossible to not think he was a kind man when he did, after all, leave his car running when he reached the animal hospital to ensure that the bird received prompt attention. Some would call this stupid, a man abandoning his vehicle like that, but those more foolish would call it kindness, but it matters little how he is judged because he did, after all, leave his car running and in doing so, it was stolen, but by then, the bird had been stabilized, and he cared more for the bird’s health than a money-eating car.

It’s true that the car was stolen, that he in fact had stolen it because it wasn’t but earlier that day that some louse left his car unlocked with the key still in the ignition. This man, this kind man who saved the poor bird, out of dumb luck stumbled across this car, this car that clearly belonged to someone else, but not caring much, perhaps because of intoxication, he got in and drove away.

We’re not going to call it karma or fate or any of these words, but it is impossible to deny that there is some kind of cycle involved because the moment he walked into his house, still intoxicated, although that may be too kind of a description, he saw blood drizzled in chaotic trails. Out of curiosity, he followed these movements, which he alone could see. We have seen the house and the blood and sure as shit there’s no way he could’ve seen any kind of pattern, and yet, somehow he did, and after he followed the trail to its end, he saw the dog and the bird. He’s certain that at some point there was a struggle, perhaps even a war, but by the time he saw it, there were bits of dull bone protruding from this mass of flab and dirty feathers. The dog tossed it up and caught it. She tossed it up again and caught it midair. The man puked in his hand. Then, he called the dog, “Here Killer. Here boy.” The dog’s name wasn’t Killer. The dog wasn’t his. This wasn’t his house. But the dog came anyways. The dog came and dropped the bird on his feet. The dog wasn’t even a boy.

This is when the miracle happened, when the inebriated man picked up the pulsating carcass and crammed his own fingers over the missing pockets of organs and skin. The bird, recognizing a strange kindness, continued to breathe. This was perhaps all the little bird could do.

So the man jumped into the car that was not his and drove with the little bird dissolving in his lap to the animal hospital where the second miracle happened and the bird survived.

It was certain that the bird had only one functional wing and that the dog that damaged many of the little bird’s nerve endings, although which ones in particular weren’t quite clear. The man, now quite sober, agreed to care for the bird, which he’d become certain was some type of savior.

After eight hours of surgery and after he waited for another two hours for news that the bird had survived the anesthetic and all else, the man finally went outside, and he didn’t even bother looking for the car, as he was sure that it had been stolen and if it wasn’t, he certainly didn’t have any respect left for a car that sat outside for ten hours with the keys still in the ignition that couldn’t be stolen. He walked the many, many miles necessary to reach his own home, his real home.

He was tired, but he didn’t rest. He went inside and immediately began building a birdhouse. It had once been a bonding father-son activity, although he could hardly remember if it was between him and his father or him and his son, but his hands knew where to hammer, where to hold without instruction. And so he built and he built with great vigor until the house was complete. A two-story mansion designed specifically for a bird missing a wing. Everything was slightly off, on this diagonal skewer, and the man, satisfied, slept. He slept for what must have been days and days and he never emerged, not even to go to the restroom, and it was not until the animal hospital called for him three days later that he finally woke, completely refreshed.

The man got into his own car and drove. He drove until he arrived and picked up his little bird, his own little bird. He was happy to see it standing, although the dog had almost lopped off a sizable portion of the bird’s left leg. The man reminded himself to account for this in the birdhouse.

Joyous, the man drove home, eager to show the little bird his new palace.