The Mourning Dove

She lay by our back door panting and bleeding-- a mourning dove that had been half-killed by one of our cats. Her head was a beautiful, soft silvery-grey, but her back was stripped bare of feathers and skin, bleeding and raw. Her wings lay limply on the ground beside her. When I opened the sliding door she raised her head and looked at me with one gentle, shining black eye. She was beautiful and horrible at the same time.

Our golden retriever, Heidi, lay next to her, keeping the cats away. But I knew that even if no cat ever touched this little bird again, she could not live. My stomach felt sick looking at her, bleeding on the doorstep, but at the same time I wished I had a gun to end her suffering. I shut the door and felt tears on my cheeks.

A picture of my Grandma came into my mind. She was a short lady, the wife of a farmer, sweet and gentle. But she had had to kill birds-- chickens, and I believe pigeons, on several occasions. She would have been able to deal with this. She would have known how to help this bird into the next life. Unfortunately, my Grandma is in the next life herself.

I picked up my cell phone and called my parents. My mom answered and I asked if Dad was there. She said he was, but was sick and couldn't come to the phone. So I told her I wanted to ask him how to kill an injured bird. She said her neighbors, who also have cats, often bring wounded birds over for my dad to kill. He snaps their necks. Although I felt sick, I thanked her for the information, then went to check on the little bird, hoping it might have already died.

Its bloody back was rising and falling as it took little breaths. Again it lifted its head to look at me. I went back inside and thought. Could I leave it there to suffer? It would surely die eventually. Perhaps it wasn't in pain. Was I certain that birds experience pain? No. But I was pretty sure. I walked into the bathroom and cried over what I was about to do. I could not do it. But I couldn't not do it, either.

Back in the kitchen I took several plastic bags from under the kitchen sink. I put two bags on each hand, like gloves. Then I opened the door and knelt by the little bird. It did not raise it's head, but was breathing rapidly. As soon as I reached for it Heidi got to her feet and snatched the little bird in her mouth and ran off.

"No!" I yelled. The dog stopped and looked at me. "Drop it!" She set the bird gently down and looked at me. I picked it up and held its tiny neck between my fingers and twisted. Then I dropped the bird. It must be dead. Heidi jumped forward and picked it up again in her mouth, and as she turned to run off I saw the bird raise it's head and look at me again.

I was sobbing as I followed Heidi and again told her to drop it. She wouldn't, but took off for the back of the yard. "No!" I yelled. She stopped and I pried her jaws open and caught the bleeding bird. It was clearly still breathing. Crying so hard I couldn't see, I took the little bird's neck in my hands and tore its head from it's body. Then I dropped it to the ground and ran into the house, sobbing out loud. I ran to the bathroom and ripped the bags from my hands and stuffed them into the trash, then stumbled into the kitchen. Rachel came upstairs and held me like she was my mother, instead of the other way around, while I sobbed and sobbed. She patted my back and said, "It's alright. You did the right thing. It's better now. It's not hurting anymore."

After forever I went to get a tissue. One little bird is in heaven, and I hope Heavenly Father will let it know that I was trying to help, that I love animals, and that I am deeply sorry for any pain I caused in its last moments on Earth. I love that little mourning dove.