The death of a bird

Where shall I begin?

Here are the facts - This morning between classes I was making a trip to my dorm room and was brought up short just outside the door by the sight of a small brown bird lying on the pavement. I stopped, of course, and noticed it was still breathing, albeit rapidly. As I stood over it two other students stopped as well. We concluded it had hit a window above the door and was in shock, but did very little until one man bent down and gently moved it to the grass. I left before he finished moving it and went on to my room, and the next time I walked that way, I noticed it had died.

This story, if one can call it that, isn’t horrific or even terribly tragic. Small birds die all the time, right? What troubled me was the fact I did nothing.

I have taken care of downed birds before, because at home we have floor-to-ceiling picture windows. I knew what I could have at least tried to do for the creature, which looked uninjured but for the shock. I have done it before. I knew moving the bird to the grass would accomplish nothing and possibly speed its death (the grass was wet and cold) but I said nothing and let things be. That may not seem disturbing to you, but it told me something about myself I didn’t really want to know. I have grown more uncompassionate than I would care to admit, and despite all my fine words about love to every living creature and so on, I just let a small bird die because I couldn’t be bothered and after all don’t these things happen every day?

Of course I have no way of knowing if it would have survived with my care. It may have been irreparably injured and I would have been just as sad, if not more so. Still, the fact that I turned and went to my room even while it was still struggling for life… It wasn’t until I walked by later and saw the bird was dead that I realized what I had become. It may seem silly to a world-wise cynic, or even a ‘normal’ person, that I would hate myself for not trying to save a common brown bird that had hit a window and would have died anyway, but I remember the time when I mourned over every dead bird and a downed one would have had me racing to the rescue, and I realize I just don’t care as much as I once did. At least someone else had the decency to do something, even if it was probably not the best… but the point is that person wasn’t me, and that is what rankles.

It seems to be the death of a bird should mean more than it does. Death is a terrible thing no matter what, and death of an innocent creature as a result of human establishment in particular should mean something to a human like me! But I know I don’t have to tell anyone this is an uncaring world where the innocent suffer and die and the rich and comfortable don’t lift a finger because they have more important things to do. Humanity has always been this way. Today I was forcefully reminded I was a part of that. It’s easy to write fine speeches on the need for compassion, and be proud of the fact that I am not a hard uncaring person when I’m done. It’s easy to fall into the “holier-than-thou” groove because I don’t hurt living creatures willingly and so on. Today I came to grips with the fact that despite all my words, I’m a cold, self-absorbed human just like everything else. Welcome to the real world, Avi.