saint francis of assistance

Walt Disney had a bird fetish.


I don't know what else you could call it.


Remember Snow White and Cinderella? When they were not talking to birds, the birds were assisting in their housecleaning chores.


My experience with birds is that they seldom are part of the solution when it comes to tidying up around the house.


But, Disney did something even more subversive than convince young viewers, if they just waited long enough, some bird would show up to make the bed. Disney also convinced children that animals are just like us.


The Philadelphia lawyer word for Disney's sin is anthropomorphism. He convinced us that animals share uniquely human attributes with us. Gratitude. Compassion. Empathy.


Even I am guilty. Just look back at what I have written about Jiggs over the past two years. You would think he had more human attributes than I do. (And that is far too easy a target for witty comments.)


Animal behaviorists tell us all we are merely projecting our own feelings on animals when we say that the crocodile had compassion on the kudu crossing its stream. Most animals do not even have a sense of self-awareness.


Sunday afternoon, Tim, a fellow Oregonian, stopped by to chat. We were sitting on the patio, doing our best to fend off the increasing humidity, when I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye.


We have had a lot of interesting visitors on the patio these days: a snake, a turtle, land crabs, cockroaches.


But the moment I saw it, I wish I had not allowed my eyes to wander from the conversation. It was a baby bird on the ground.


And I knew what type of bird. It had to have fallen out of one of the barn swallow nests.

Every moral choice involves a decision. I could have simply ignored the bird, continued the conversation, and let nature take its course. Or I could intervene to help.


Of course, I intervened.


Like any good medic, I started my triage. What were the chances it would survive?


That did not look good. Ants were already covering it -- either trying to speed its death or waiting for the inevitable. But the moment the bird saw my movement, its feed reflex went into play and its mouth opened.


Any bird with a life spirit that strong deserved a chance to live.


But it was not alone. I found a second bird -- far worse off.

So, I grabbed a ladder and started checking nests wnith Tim's help. We finally narrowed the choices down. An adult swallow was eyeing us when we got near the babies. The nearest nest to it was empty.


Into the nest went both birds.

The adult swallow swooped in several times, and then flew away. Again. And again. And again.


I thought we had chosen the wrong nest. But, eventually, the swallow returned with insects and started feeding at least one of the small birds.


As I was putting the ladder away, the adult swallow paused on a leaf of the banana "tree," and started a bit of swallow song.


Was it a hymn of gratitude? Did the swallow even understand what had occurred -- beyond restoring a paternal duty that appeared to be over?


I doubt it. The behaviorists are probably correct.


But, I know I felt a sense of gratitude that the swallows continue to share my life and that I was able to do a good turn for them.


Will they help me with the laundry? Nope. But, then, neither will Cinderella or Snow White.