Yesterday afternoon I was delighted and more than a little proud to hear that my 11 year old son had scored fives across the board in his SATS. As I drove home from work, I was looking forward to the celebratory meal out that Mrs Baldwin and I felt was appropriate to mark the occasion. His choice of food/venue!
Last night as I pulled on to my drive, still suited and booted from my day in the office, I was greeted with what I initially thought was a dead pigeon on the street side of my front hedge.
Nice!
The bird was on its back with its wings spread-eagled and its legs in the air but as I walked up to it, a wing flapped forlornly and an eye opened to look at me.
“Oh hell” I thought!
My seven year old daughter and her mates from down the street were playing and immediately came over to see what I was doing. Because the bird was still alive they expressed firm beliefs that it could be nursed back to health when the reality was that this pigeon was done for (the bleeding hole in its breast, the clear sign).
That left me with an obvious dilemma, the bird needed to be put out of its misery, that being the only humane thing to do, but I could hardly deal with it with the kids watching. I shooed away my daughter and her pals and then went to find something to use.
Just moments later, when I came back with a spade, I had to chase away one of my cats (that may have been the original culprit behind the bird’s demise) and then three different kids from the Close. The scene was becoming comical, in a decidedly black way. These kids wanted to see me kill the pigeon.
To avoid giving the children nightmares, I shovelled up the bird and took it into my back garden to deal with.
When getting ready to despatch it, I turned around to find my daughter bouncing up and down by the back door wanting to watch. Within minutes she had gone from determined to save the bird to being actively interested in its death – the schizophrenia of youth abundantly clear.
At this point I reflected that the only person depressed by the situation was me – although I don’t suppose the pigeon was that happy either.
Whilst it was never going to fly again, at least my mood was uplifted later thanks to my lad’s academic success and our trip to the pub for dinner. He even had the emotional intelligence to point out to my daughter that she shouldn’t get excited about watching something die.
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Last night as I pulled on to my drive, still suited and booted from my day in the office, I was greeted with what I initially thought was a dead pigeon on the street side of my front hedge.
Nice!
The bird was on its back with its wings spread-eagled and its legs in the air but as I walked up to it, a wing flapped forlornly and an eye opened to look at me.
“Oh hell” I thought!
My seven year old daughter and her mates from down the street were playing and immediately came over to see what I was doing. Because the bird was still alive they expressed firm beliefs that it could be nursed back to health when the reality was that this pigeon was done for (the bleeding hole in its breast, the clear sign).
That left me with an obvious dilemma, the bird needed to be put out of its misery, that being the only humane thing to do, but I could hardly deal with it with the kids watching. I shooed away my daughter and her pals and then went to find something to use.
Just moments later, when I came back with a spade, I had to chase away one of my cats (that may have been the original culprit behind the bird’s demise) and then three different kids from the Close. The scene was becoming comical, in a decidedly black way. These kids wanted to see me kill the pigeon.
To avoid giving the children nightmares, I shovelled up the bird and took it into my back garden to deal with.
When getting ready to despatch it, I turned around to find my daughter bouncing up and down by the back door wanting to watch. Within minutes she had gone from determined to save the bird to being actively interested in its death – the schizophrenia of youth abundantly clear.
At this point I reflected that the only person depressed by the situation was me – although I don’t suppose the pigeon was that happy either.
Whilst it was never going to fly again, at least my mood was uplifted later thanks to my lad’s academic success and our trip to the pub for dinner. He even had the emotional intelligence to point out to my daughter that she shouldn’t get excited about watching something die.
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