The call came just after lunch. Rebecca peered out the window and cried, “Kenton! Bear has a bird!”

Bear, otherwise known as Nin-Po for his ninja-like agility and his black coat, is one of two cats who share our house. There are also two dogs. Now, having cats and dogs can be a true joy, but since we feel that all animals should get to be outside, we’re often put into a strange juxtaposition. We love our pets and want to give them freedom, but we also love the wildlife, and make a point of feeding the birds. The mixture means that sometimes birds become dinner for the cats.
                                                                                                                                     "Watch out, little Junco!"
We tried to circumvent this by arranging our birdfeeders strategically so that the cats don’t have proper cover within striking distance of the birds. But the nearby fir trees, which give the birds such wonderful hiding-places from hawks, can also be deadly if birds perch in the lower branches. For there lurk the cats.

When Rebecca cried out, I was in t-shirt and socks, but there was no time to dress for the weather. I threw open the back door, vaulted over the deck’s rail, and landed in the snow near the feeders, casting about for Bear. He was nowhere to be seen, but I soon spotted tracks leading under the deck, so I slid down through the snow to the bare ground beneath the decking.

There was Bear, darting away with feathers in his mouth. I scrambled around on my belly under the deck, searching all about for the bird so that we could help it if it was injured. There’s some old junk under the deck, and just as I began crawling over it to see if I could find the injured bird, Rebecca called out again.

“Now the dogs have a rabbit!”

Unbelievable. I crawled out as quickly as I could from under the deck and followed her pointing finger, sprinting through the snow in my stocking-feet. Our dog Suka had abandoned the rabbit on a trail, and for a shining moment I thought it might still be alive. But when I stood over it, I was in for a gruesome sight. Half of its body was missing, already eaten.

I could do no good there, so I sprinted back to the deck and dove beneath it to resume my search for the bird. There! It was a Junco, hopping away from me. I crawled after it, and it made its way up to the narrowest part of the deck so that I had to squeeze along with my face in the dirt. But at last I cornered it, said a few soothing words, and took it in my hand.

Inside, I changed clothes and we looked our charge over. He was injured in two places, but wasn’t bleeding badly. We called our friend Chris who keeps pet birds, and got the low-down on emergency bird medicine. Then we made our Junco as comfortable as possible, gave him food, water, and warmth, and kept a good watch over him. Once, before dark, we tried to release him, but he couldn’t fly – we guessed it was from muscle damage near one of his wings. We tucked him into his nest for the night and went to sleep.

In the morning we went straight to see how he was doing. He was very still, lying sideways next to his water bowl. He hadn’t survived the night, and when we examined him, we saw that the puncture wounds from Bear’s teeth were deeper than we had thought. Sadly, we took him outside.

We’ve rescued countless animals from situations where they otherwise would have died. But engaging in those rescues means that we’ve also watched countless animals die. As much as we try, our care (or the vet's, or the wildlife rehabilitator's, depending on the situation) sometimes just isn’t enough. And in this case, it was easy to feel responsible. If we weren’t feeding the birds (which some people feel helps the birds, and others feel is not very good for them at all), Bear would have a much tougher time catching them. Are we doing the birds a favor, or leading them into a death-trap?

                                            Bold and beautiful
After we laid the Junco to rest in the woods, we went out and filled the bird-feeders. The chickadees were so bold that they were flying around us as we filled, so close that we could almost feel the wind from their wings.

This dance of life and death is strangely beautiful, and the way in which our actions, as human beings, affect that dance is largely mysterious. As we watch the cardinals, jays, nuthatches and woodpeckers swoop in to eat from our feeders, we know that we are part of that dance, and that even if it sometimes unfolds in saddening ways, it is always beautiful.