Bird in a Box

I'm a daddy! That's right, I've got a baby. Sure, you'd have to go back several hundred million years to find the point in which our genetic codes bore a father and son similarity, but it doesn't change the fact that the survival of the little tike is contingent upon my diligent caretaking. And his time with me may be very influential. Who knows, maybe he'll grow to whistle the Morrissey tune he's currently being exposed to by his, eh hem, pappy.

Ok, I'm really not that stoked about having to take care of a baby bird for the next who knows how many days. Already I've had to chop squirming worms in half, getting their guts on my fingers in the process, before dropping them into Sir Squawksalot's gaping pie-hole. And if the fledgeling lives up to his name, I risk pissing off my roommate and becoming very annoyed myself.

So how did I come into possession of a baby bird? I was slowly riding back into Boise after having completed a big loop south of town when I glanced to the left and saw Sir Squawksalot sitting in the a grassy plot in front of a glue factory or something, squawking his head off to anyone who'd listen. He was a big fella with black feathers and huge head and gaping mouth. I don't know who he thought would walk up and drop something tasty into his mouth, but I didn't see any feathered friend who gave a shit, so I became worried that he might be starving, as per the way he was acting. I circled in for a closer look and then started glancing down at puddles in search of something squirmy to feed him. Finding nothing, I slowly rode away. Empathy got the best of me. I stopped in at a truck stop and asked the cashier for a box. I road back to Sir Squawksalot, scooped him up, placed him in the box, and zipped down to the Flying J where I purchased a canister of night crawlers. Carefully, I made it home without sending the box and bird flying into traffic. I dropped Sir Squawksalot onto a bed of grass in my back yard and gave him a few minutes to get over the shock of a rough trip encased in cardboard. Taking a cue from a National Geographic program on raising condores, I made a lame bird puppet out of a black sock just to ensure the successful feeding I was about to dispense. The feeding was indeed a success. For a while the bird seemed content. It wasn't long before he began squawking again, and I felt compelled to feed him more. I fed him three times in three hours, I think.

At any rate, I've acquired a box for Sir Squawksalot. I also bought chicken liver and canned dog food for his dining pleasure these next few days. I'm hoping he survives, grows strong, and flys away soonish.

Got to go. I need to try feeding the baby so he'll stay quiet through the night.