Eszter Forvith
Walking home one night from a friend’s house I spotted a little muddy figure in the corner of a building and on further inspection I found it to be a little pigeon and the mud I had thought to see earlier was no mud but the color of its wings, a brown pigeon it was. It was no small creature either for sure but was still a chick I assumed from the lack of feathers on its head and the chirping sound it made when I approached. Since it clearly was unable to fly on its own and would surely be condemned to die if I left it there, I had decided to take it into my care for the time being.
I carried the poor thing home where I made a little nest it could rest in and gave it some seeds and water. Since it was already late, I decided to call it a day and went to bed. The small creature must have made the same calculation since I didn’t hear a noise from it for the rest of the night.
The next morning, when I awoke, I found it not in the nest where I left it but curiously exploring my room. After a bit of back and forth I managed to catch it and discovered a nasty wound on its left wing and gave treatment for it, along with a little bath, since its legs and wings were dirty and sticky from the bird droppings it was sitting in. It was afraid of me; I could see it in its eyes the need to get away from me, away as far as it can. It was a wild animal after all, not a domestic pet, it was an urban pigeon destined to fly high and eat trash and I didn’t blame it for its hostile behavior, it couldn’t possibly understand that I only wanted to help. I would release it when the time came, but that wasn’t now, it still needed time to recover so I put it back into its nest.
Days passed and it became a habit for the little bird to jump out of its nest and trash my room, so I had no other choice but put it in an animal carrier that was clearly not to its liking since it tried to break out several times only to realize it couldn’t but tried again anyways a few hours later. It still tried to avoid my touch when I gave it medicine but became much less resistant as the days passed. That’s when I decided to give it a name. I assumed it was a boy since it was so big and gave him the name Brownie.
Brownie started to develop more feathers as time passed and the scar on its left wing healed without much difficulty which I was eternally grateful for since I didn’t have the money to take him to the vet nor the qualification to treat him any better. I started to enjoy his company during the days, since I didn’t have many friends at the time and was lonely quite often. I started talking to him and it felt good to talk about my feelings and just in general anything that happened to me throughout the day to anyone other than myself. He was a good listener I have to say, one of the best I have ever met and sometimes when I looked into his eyes, I felt like he was actually listening to what I was saying. To be honest I started to get really attached to him and started to fear the day I would have to let him go.
Sometimes when I came home, I would let him roam free in my room and he eventually started to practice flying but never went further up than my bed. It became a habit for him to fly up onto it and sit with me while I studied and he was a pleasant company I have to admit, he didn’t bother me and sometimes he would even let me pet him on the neck, which he seemed to really enjoy. I have to say I was quite comfortable with this life.
It’s important to mention that I also had a cat called Sooty because of her black fur of course and as much as I tried to keep her out of my room, where Brownie lived, I couldn’t avoid the tragic thing from happening. One day when I came home, I found my door wide open and felt my heart stopped for a moment. I rushed into the room where I found Sooty looking up at my highest cabinet and when I followed her gaze, I saw Brownie sitting on the top looking right back at Snooty. I felt a rock shift from my shoulders at that moment and quickly shooed the black cat out of the room. At that moment I knew it was time to let go of Brownie.
The next day I went to the nearby park and after taking a deep breath I opened the box Brownie was in. He didn’t fly away immediately; he looked at me and I felt my eyes start to burn. ”Go,” I said so quietly that even I could barely hear it and away he went flying high up to the sky. He flew like he had done this all his life, he was finally free as he should be. I should have felt proud and happy at that moment but I didn’t feel either, I felt scared and betrayed. A part of me expected him to stay, to choose me and not the freedom he was born to have, it was a selfish thought. At that moment several questions came through my mind. Have I done the right thing by letting him go? It was a decision for sure but was it the right one? I guess this is the story that could have happened if I really took home that pigeon on that fateful evening, but the truth is I never saw the bird again, I don’t know what happened to it, if it lived or died but I do think about what could have happened if I had decided to help.