The other day, much to my horror, I looked out the window to see that Lily was racing around the back garden with a fledgling wood pigeon in her mouth. The poor fluffy bundle was frantically flapping its downy wings as he struggled to escape the gleeful puppy bounding around, pleased as punch with her catch.
The man of the house was promptly dispatched to assist. He got Lily to leave her prize and put the fledgling out of reach where he thought it may have its nest, not holding out much hope for its survival and wondering whether it would have been more humane to just have let the little fellow meet his end. Needless to say, I immediately wanted to nurse it, to call the RSPB, to sound the alarm etc., but ultimately went with the opinion of the person who’d been around these things a lot longer than myself (the city girl that I am/was) and left the little fellow to his own devices.
The next day though, guess what? There he was in the morning, a little worse for wear, having somehow hobbled all the way around the house to come perch at the ledge by the living room window. I felt he’d come to say thank you to the man for the rescue, the man felt he’d come by to glare at his enemy – either way, he is now much recovered, as you can see and returned to give Lily a view of his bum, and a nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah.
He ended up having to escape Lily’s clutches one more time when she managed to corner him once more, which led him to be named Danny Diehard. He still hung about, the fearless wonder, was taught by his parental units how to feed and such, and now seems quite healed.
What a trooper!