I had a rough night last night.
I saw what appeared to be a really cool rock on my front stoop, so I picked it up to examine it more closely.
As luck would NOT have it, it was actually a bird’s egg.
Unfortunately, the story only goes downhill from here, so for those with weak hearts, I advise you leave now (if you aren’t ready to stop “clotting” yet though, definitely check out our anagrams page!).
The bird’s egg was not intact, as a chunk of shell was missing from the bottom of it.
Then, after recognizing clear movement inside the shell, I was utterly flabbergasted. A live bird was hatching from his shell right in the palm of my hand—what should I do?
Wanting to protect the bird from the elements (in this case, human feet), I moved it to the side of the stoop, nestled in a small dirt patch surrounded by grass.
For the next two hours, I watched the poor fellow struggle with his shell, but I would not offer any additional assistance, because nature needs to run its course.
Everybody who walked by and saw me observing the “hatching process” said the same thing: “he’s a goner; he’s dead; he’s too weak; he’s underdeveloped; he’s not strong enough to finish hatching…”
2 hours later, covered in dozens of small scavenging ants that knew he was too weak to survive outside the nest, the bird finally emerged from his shell. He was indeed underdeveloped, unfortunately, and was therefore unable to stand on his feet. The ants continued to swarm the little guy.
After the bird crawled about 3 inches (which took another hour), I realized I had an important decision to make.
Knowing that I would be unable to care for and raise the bird in my own home, I could either let nature take its course (which, given the circumstances, would certainly result in the bird’s prolonged death), or I could take matters into my own hands by mercifully ending the bird’s pain.
My mother, being particularly optimistic, explained that “perhaps the mother bird will return and carry him back into the nest.” I tried to explain to my mother that THAT NEVER HAPPENS, but she preferred me to ere on the side of being too hopeful anyway.
3 hours later, the bird’s life ended from natural causes. He couldn’t take it anymore, so he breathed his last.
I buried him, very respectfully.
There was no candle, no incense, and no music. It was solemn and bleak.
As I pounded the flat of my shovel onto the surface of the freshly disturbed earth, I realized that the bird, though its life was a short and agonizing one, actually taught me a powerful lesson, but I’m going to save that for another day—the wound is still fresh; I’d rather let the dust settle first.
Until next time,
Michael J. Erickson, CEO & Co-Founder
