Swingate and a baby thrush.

Happier times (ie. alive)

Happier times (i.e. alive)

I swing into Swingate at 8am sharp.
The 8 o’clock news was just starting on Hertbeat FM.
5 spaces left, so I was cutting it fine. There would have been only 4 if a silver Polo hadn’t parked up on a kerb which wasn’t even close to being a proper space.

I guess it makes no difference to the car park itself. The barriers count ’em in and count ’em out. It takes no account of ‘creative’ parking within its tiny empire. Imagine seeing the last gleaming space in the car park but not being let in ‘cos the barrier thinks the place is full.

That would be frustrating.

Rescued a chubby little thrush yesterday. Obviously took a battering off the local moggy (nasty looking ginger and black thing). Both legs looked iffy. The body was a little ruffled but the wings seemed OK. It took me back to my childhood, rescuing birds that our cat Tui had caught and injured, but not finished off in cloud of feathers.

Anyway, we tenderly put it in large plastic planter lined with a golf towel, high up in the garage, out of harm’s (cats’) way. It seemed to be pretty shellshocked and having no use of its legs, it did look awkward. Wasn’t intersted in bread or water. The prognosis was 50:50.

This morning my son wasted no time in going to check on our patient. My wife looked down from the bedroom window. Thumbs up or down? Down. It had curled up into a ball and died in the night. Nothing we could have done. Except brought it inside? Nah, it was a goner whatever we did. My brother-in-law’s a vet. He’s extremely fond of animals but also very pragmatic about these things. I fear he may have prescribed a shovel to be administered until the patient could no longer feel any pain… But don’t quote me on that – he’s an extremely accomplished and caring vet!

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