I've just dosed Debbie for the evening with antibiotics and painkillers. I think she's a little wasted.
Why am I delivering narcotics to my pet pigeon? It's a fair question, of course.
I find it ironic that only a short time ago I wrote about how Debbie, my pet pigeon, had fallen in love with me.
Oh Debbie, don't you know? Love hurts.
Debbie had taken to following me around at my school. She was my shadow, my constant companion, strutting about to find me should I leave the room. Unfortunately, Debbie's devotion led her down the road to disaster.
Debbie was pecking my feet the other afternoon, and had settled down under my chair for a prolonged bout of cooing her adoration.
I had gotten used to moving my feet very slowly if I needed to get up from the chair. I did just that the other day.
But instead of moving away, Debbie began to fiercely flap her wings. She shot out from under the desk and flew to the top of the door, shaking her head wildly and moving about like, well, a pigeon with her head cut off.
I noticed a flap of feathers on her chest vibrating. That flap of feathers was something new, and it wasn't good. Blood was also starting to pour out of her chest.
I had run over poor Debbie. Actually, I came to realize later, when inspecting the chair, that her neck had gotten caught in the little plastic flap that covers the chair's wheels.
Fifteen years of First Aid training has to count for something, right? Apply pressure to stop the bleeding. I grabbed a wad of paper towels and coaxed her into my hands from atop the door.
I couldn't see the wound, but I knew it had to be bad. Luckily, our school is two doors away from an animal hospital.
I rushed out the door and up the hill to the vet's office, Debbie in my arms, paper towel pressed against her chest.
As I made my way into the office, I remember starting to cry. I babbled something to the front desk lady about running over my pigeon. Luckily, she took Debbie from me and went immediately into that mysterious back section of the animal hospital that I have never personally seen.
My thoughts centered on the fact that this was a catastrophic event for a small animal, and that I just wanted to have Debbie's suffering ended.
At this point, some mysterious forces in the universe began to align themselves.
"Go ahead and put her down if she needs to be," I sobbed. "I know that most vets don't work on birds."
The kind animal hospital lady replied with "The vet here today does work on birds."
While I was processing this information, all three of the animal hospital ladies surrounded me, offering hugs and a box of tissues.
Things started to look even better when the vet herself appeared to tell me that even though it was a nasty wound, it had missed Debbie's eye, ear, trachea and all other important parts. The doctor thought she could fix it.
Pigeons, she told me, are tough birds.
Debbie was put under and the vet started her work. I waited for two hours. My friend Sue, in response to my tearful and most likely incoherent phone call, came to join me.
The vet finally came to tell us that Debbie was stitched up. She would need antibiotics and pain medicine, but the vet was cautiously optimistic about her chances for survival, provided there wasn't a secondary infection. I found all of this hard to believe, and wasn't yet ready to claim some of the vet's hope for myself.
I brought Debbie home in a cardboard box, dragged an old parakeet cage out of the attic, tearfully settled her into it and went to bed dreading the morning, when I was sure I would find a former pigeon on the bottom of the cage.
Of course I didn't sleep. I had one of those nights where the tape is on constant rewind. Every time I felt like I could doze off, I was greeted by a vision of Debbie frantically shaking her head, trying to figure out what had just happened to her.
The worst feeling of all was knowing that I had killed my own pet. With a chair.
(Weeks from now, I'll be able to mine this whole situation for the dark humor it inherently contains. Right now, I'm still a little raw. So shoot me.)
Dark nights end, of course. In 51 years, I have at least learned that.
In the morning, I steeled myself for the trip down the stairs. I expected a disaster.
I heard her cooing before I got into the room. She was alive!
I saw that she had eaten and drunk overnight, and, although she looked a bit worse for wear (just look at the accompanying picture), she sat firmly on her perch, and bobbed her head as I approached.
I couldn't believe our luck.
She continues to act like her old self. She sits calmly when I put Neosporin and Mederma on her wound, and lets Steve hold her head so I can give her the medicine the vet prescribed. It is surprisingly easy to administer medicine to a bird.
I would like to think that she is fully on the mend. The next few days will tell, I suppose. I would also like to think that she has forgiven me. I know animals can't assess blame or hold grudges, but still.
I guess it wasn't her time yet. For that, for the kindness of strangers and friends, and for the toughness of pigeons, I am thankful.
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