Damn it
A ruffed grouse flew into my car yesterday.
It upset me, but I need to write about it. It's what I do to let go of things. Skip this entry if you want. It's long, overwrought, unedited and I'm writing it for myself anyway.
---
Christa and I were on our way back to the city from getting some work done on my car. I was driving, she was in the passenger seat looking somewhere off to the right. We were passing through a lightly wooded area at about 100 km/h.
In my peripheral vision I saw the bird take off like a missile from the ground on the left as we passed where it was hiding. It shot across the road at an angle as I turned my head to watch.
For an instant it looked almost as if the bird was flying along beside me. It was similar in size to a small chicken, with grey feathers flecked with black. I saw its eyes.
A detached part of my brain had time to say "partridge" before the bird hit the door an inch below the bottom of the window as I pulled my left hand off the steering wheel in an instinctive and pointless effort to shield my face from being hit by the bird.
I felt the impact through the car and cried out. Christa asked, "What was that?" I said, "A partridge," and pulled into the first driveway we came to. I tried not to remember kneeling in a ditch over my dead dog so many years ago.
Cars sped past as I looked back at the road behind us. The cars back there were swinging wide into the empty oncoming lane and back again, all at the same part of road. I got out to look at my door. There was somebrown gunk stuck to the door, but no blood and no dent. I'd been sure there'd be a dent.
I didn't know if it was dead. The angle had been oblique enough that I couldn't be sure. What if it had only broken a wing? Or worse, what if it was alive, but dying slowly in agony?
"I don't know what to do," I said.
Cars continued passing.
When the way was clear, I backed out and went back the way we came.
We passed it after a moment, a ball of feathers that cars kept driving around. Christa made a small noise when she saw it. Traffic was too steady to stop on this side, so I drove on and turned around at the next sideroad and went back.
I pulled over onto the wide gravel shoulder beside the bird. It was on the road, about a foot on the wrong side of the white line that edged the pavement. I watched and thought I saw it move once. Wind rustled its feathers, so it was hard to tell. I watched more and couldn't tell if it was alive. Christa watched too and said she thought it was dead. I still wasn't sure.
"I don't know what to do," I repeated. Christa squeezed my hand.
Every car that passed pulled out around the grouse. It hadn't been hit a second time yet.
The button for the trunk release was near my left knee. I pushed it and got out of the car as the trunk flipped up. I went around the back, pulled the rubbermade bin toward me and pulled the lid off. I took out the gloves I keep in case I ever come on an accident and have to wrench open the door of a burning car.
Cars kept passing in a steady stream. I took the gloves off, threw them down into the trunk and waited. Christa was right beside me. Finally there was a break in traffic. I pulled the gloves back on and took the lid of the bin with me. Christa came to the corner of the car to watch.
"Please, don't watch," I said. "I can't..."
I couldn't finish and went toward the grouse instead. I didn't know how to explain that I didn't want to do what I was about to do, that I needed to know it was dead, but that I was afraid it was alive and afraid of hurting it more when I lifted it off the road. I didn't know how to explain that if I knew she was watching I couldn't pretend to myself I wasn't afraid and then wouldn't be able to go through with it.
It's so stupid. If it had been a person, I wouldn't have thought twice. But there's something about an animal's pain that is qualitatively different in my head. A person would recognize me as being there to help. An animal would be terrified because it would see me as a source of pain. At least, that's what I think.
I put the bin lid on the ground beside the grouse and lifted it with my left hand. It was beautiful and limp and soft and delicate and broken and still. I knew then it was dead. I gently eased it onto the bin lid and held it still as I went back around the car to place it in the long grass of the ditch.
That's when I saw its head and the blood and the bone. I stood and turned and walked away. I looked at Christa and the tears started to flow. She came forward and hugged me as another endless stream of traffic passed.
It upset me, but I need to write about it. It's what I do to let go of things. Skip this entry if you want. It's long, overwrought, unedited and I'm writing it for myself anyway.
---
Christa and I were on our way back to the city from getting some work done on my car. I was driving, she was in the passenger seat looking somewhere off to the right. We were passing through a lightly wooded area at about 100 km/h.
In my peripheral vision I saw the bird take off like a missile from the ground on the left as we passed where it was hiding. It shot across the road at an angle as I turned my head to watch.
For an instant it looked almost as if the bird was flying along beside me. It was similar in size to a small chicken, with grey feathers flecked with black. I saw its eyes.
A detached part of my brain had time to say "partridge" before the bird hit the door an inch below the bottom of the window as I pulled my left hand off the steering wheel in an instinctive and pointless effort to shield my face from being hit by the bird.
I felt the impact through the car and cried out. Christa asked, "What was that?" I said, "A partridge," and pulled into the first driveway we came to. I tried not to remember kneeling in a ditch over my dead dog so many years ago.
Cars sped past as I looked back at the road behind us. The cars back there were swinging wide into the empty oncoming lane and back again, all at the same part of road. I got out to look at my door. There was somebrown gunk stuck to the door, but no blood and no dent. I'd been sure there'd be a dent.
I didn't know if it was dead. The angle had been oblique enough that I couldn't be sure. What if it had only broken a wing? Or worse, what if it was alive, but dying slowly in agony?
"I don't know what to do," I said.
Cars continued passing.
When the way was clear, I backed out and went back the way we came.
We passed it after a moment, a ball of feathers that cars kept driving around. Christa made a small noise when she saw it. Traffic was too steady to stop on this side, so I drove on and turned around at the next sideroad and went back.
I pulled over onto the wide gravel shoulder beside the bird. It was on the road, about a foot on the wrong side of the white line that edged the pavement. I watched and thought I saw it move once. Wind rustled its feathers, so it was hard to tell. I watched more and couldn't tell if it was alive. Christa watched too and said she thought it was dead. I still wasn't sure.
"I don't know what to do," I repeated. Christa squeezed my hand.
Every car that passed pulled out around the grouse. It hadn't been hit a second time yet.
The button for the trunk release was near my left knee. I pushed it and got out of the car as the trunk flipped up. I went around the back, pulled the rubbermade bin toward me and pulled the lid off. I took out the gloves I keep in case I ever come on an accident and have to wrench open the door of a burning car.
Cars kept passing in a steady stream. I took the gloves off, threw them down into the trunk and waited. Christa was right beside me. Finally there was a break in traffic. I pulled the gloves back on and took the lid of the bin with me. Christa came to the corner of the car to watch.
"Please, don't watch," I said. "I can't..."
I couldn't finish and went toward the grouse instead. I didn't know how to explain that I didn't want to do what I was about to do, that I needed to know it was dead, but that I was afraid it was alive and afraid of hurting it more when I lifted it off the road. I didn't know how to explain that if I knew she was watching I couldn't pretend to myself I wasn't afraid and then wouldn't be able to go through with it.
It's so stupid. If it had been a person, I wouldn't have thought twice. But there's something about an animal's pain that is qualitatively different in my head. A person would recognize me as being there to help. An animal would be terrified because it would see me as a source of pain. At least, that's what I think.
I put the bin lid on the ground beside the grouse and lifted it with my left hand. It was beautiful and limp and soft and delicate and broken and still. I knew then it was dead. I gently eased it onto the bin lid and held it still as I went back around the car to place it in the long grass of the ditch.
That's when I saw its head and the blood and the bone. I stood and turned and walked away. I looked at Christa and the tears started to flow. She came forward and hugged me as another endless stream of traffic passed.
Bold (and somewhat dangerous) of you to go back and move it off the road. What's important here, is to realize that it's not your fault, and there was nothing you could to do stop or save it. I know that doesn't always make it easier, but hopefully it makes you feel less responsible.
Posted by
Chris |
Sunday, May 07, 2006 8:43:00 p.m.
Thank you.
I didn't know you were still blogging. Nice to know.
I knew it was dangerous, but the break in traffic was more than big enough and I was careful about how I lifted it. I was also willing to get bitten or clawed.
Posted by
Aaron Jacklin |
Sunday, May 07, 2006 9:37:00 p.m.