Well not quite – in the mouth of the dog more accurately. After trying unsuccessfully for many years to catch one of those ‘pesky flying things’ he always sees in his domain, my dog couldn’t believe his luck today when one was a tad too slow. Finally he had one between his jaws only to realize he needed to decide between the joy of the catch, or the wrath of his screaming master – me. He chose the latter. With a mouth full of feathers he was locked up while I deliberated on what to do with this half dead pigeon, or perhaps dove, on my lawn.

Not being good with this type of thing my first thought was to ring the eldest son to come to the rescue. His advice was “mum, get a shovel and whack it over the head”. Ok, so this was not in my being so I called my second, more sensitive son. His advice was “mum, get a shovel and whack it over the head”. What’s this? Now I have a half dead bird an extremely agitated dog and two psychopathic sons. This was not a good start to the day.

I rang WIRES, sure that they would help, but they couldn’t. My poor half dead bird, with the pleading “help me help me” eyes was not native to Australia. Not worthy of help, it just had to lay there slowly dying while all the much loved and protected “native” birds pick it to pieces. That’s Specieism.

Son number two, feeling sympathy for me came over and placed the bird in a basket for me to take to the vet. All will be good I thought, but the look on the vets face contradicted her words when she said “the bird should be fine”. In fact, I sensed her real thoughts were that perhaps I should have saved myself and them the trouble, and just – ‘got a shovel and whacked it over the head’.

 

Cheers

Buttercup

 

“The moment a little boy is concerned with which is a jay and which is a sparrow, he can no longer see the birds or hear them sing.” ― Eric Berne