I noticed this bird sitting completely still on our back lawn. 'It's a pigeon,' Mr A said, as if that explained its inertness and also its shape. 'It's not!' I snorted, provoking a spat which ended in me grabbing up our Bird Book and riffling wildly through the pages, eventually discovering it was a baby collared dove. About an hour later I saw it was still there so I walked down to investigate. As I drew near it studied me peacefully, which, for a dove, was only to be expected I suppose. Using my high-pitched gentle cooing voice I spoke to it, hoping it would be fooled into thinking I was its mother, which it may not have had time to fully take in, being so young. It stared at me with what seemed to me like love in its little round eyes and I wanted to snatch it up and swaddle it in my mother's hand-crocheted shawl, if only I'd have kept it, which I hadn't. 'Stay there,' little one I squeak-cooed, rushing back to the house to get it some bread and water.
As I ventured close I reassured it again with my female-collared-dove high voice. It didn't budge, just gently gazed at me. I tore off a morsel of bread and threw it underarm but it didn't get near enough for it to reach. I tried again. And again. Then I took aim and chucked a chunk overarm, accidentally hitting it broadside on, sending it into a frenzied wing-dragging limp away from me and up onto a plank of wood where it perched displaying its poor shredded tail.
Sadly, we had to leave the bird to fend for itself all night. The next day - which happened to be the very lucky date of 10.10.10, a date that pleased me no end - I went down the garden and found it sitting patiently under the conifer tree. Carefully I pushed a shallow container of water towards it but, once again it took flight, but that only in the 'fleeing' meaning of the word. Obviously, with a wing like that the other meaning was impossible. So much for the tenth of the tenth of the tenth being lucky I thought, mooching off. But later, when I went back to check on it, a miracle had occured because to my utter amazement another baby collared dove was keeping it company!
On the morning of the 11th, just the uninjured bird was there, sitting about two feet up on the branch of the conifer tree. No sign of the demise of the injured one, no feathers or bloody corpse. Zilch. Nothing. And by the twelfth, even the miracle comforting bird had vanished into thin air.
