Years ago, on a cold spring day, I saved a baby sparrow from certain death. I was reaching for mail in my mailbox, and inside was this sparrow that had little to no feathers. He fell from a nest perched above the light, above the mailbox. I took this cold, unmoving tiny bird between my hands and held him for twenty minutes before he began stirring. I fed him some dry dog food mixed with water every couple of hours. TweetyBird grew and thrived. He was part of the family. When I let him fly around at times, he would land on a shoulder, or close to your hand, and try to steal your food, or pen, or whatever you happened to be working with. He teased the cat all the time, landing close, then flying away, just in time. One day, he was out of his cage, and on the floor while I was cooking. I accidentally stepped on poor Tweety. My daughter and I brought him to the vet, who said he had a broken leg and was in shock. He could put him to sleep. Michelle and I started crying and hugged. Silently, the vet put a piece of scotch tape around the leg, and said we could take him home, but he probably wouldn’t make it past morning. Tweety wasn’t ready to die, however. Soon he was flying around again like nothing had happened. Almost. Landing was a little tough. The broken leg would swing out to the side, but land he did.
Tweety had a good life, even getting outside once, although he was easy to spot, with a broken leg. Eventually, though, the cat won.