Happy Gotcha Day, Commander!
On July 21, 2011, we found a little pigeon huddled behind the back wheel of a large, parked truck, a wing hanging low and limp by his side. It turned out he had a fractured humerus — equivalent to the bone that runs from the shoulder to the elbow in our arms.
The veterinarian at the wildlife rehabilitation center we took him to explained that he would need surgery if he were ever to fly again, and given that he was “just a pigeon,” making that sort of investment wouldn’t make sense. She told us that they were going to kill him. We asked to have the bird back, telling her that we would take the bird to a private veterinarian, pay to have the wing repaired, and, if he could still not fly afterward, he could live with us.
We hit a proverbial brick wall.
In conversations with the doctor, her vet tech, and later, the emergency on-call “expert” at another facility, we hit a wall. They all tried to talk us out of treatment and dismissed us like naive, ill-informed, and even selfish individuals for suggesting the pigeon wouldn’t be better off dead.
One staff member told us that while our desire to save him was admirable, we needed to consider the bird’s “best interest” — which, in her estimation, was annihilation. Another reminded us that he was not “native” and therefore of little value.
We disagreed: Commander was not suffering from a mortal injury, and it didn’t matter where or when his species evolved. We demanded the bird back.
That was 15 years ago today. We did opt for the surgery at our own expense, but it didn’t work. Since he could no longer fly, we took him in, and the (former) little flyer we named Commander Seymour Higgins lives with us to this day. He’s a talkative little fellow who loves millet, warm baths, and sitting in the sun.
For 15 years, Commander has had these and more, including shelter, warmth, the company of other birds, and our companionship — things that those who should have been his biggest champion tried to talk us out of.
Happy Gotcha Day, Commander!