A Noble Idea That Hit Me Last Tuesday

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I was riding home from the cardiologist’s in a taxi and heard a woman on the radio say that if you see a bird lying on the sidewalk, you shouldn’t ignore it, you should pick it up gently and move its legs — if the bird reacts, it’s alive, and may recover, so you might put it in a paper sack and carry it to a warm place and if it’s wounded, you could take it to a wild bird shelter.

I had never heard this advice before and I was impressed. The cab was wending through heavy traffic in Manhattan and the thought of someone stopping to give first aid to a bird seems unlikely to me. Maybe in a children’s book, but in New York, no. I say this as someone who’s fallen three times in New York, tripped on a curb once, hit a low-hanging limb once, tripped on uneven pavement, and each time, within three seconds, strangers rushed to my side, asked if I was okay, offered a hand. God has His Eye on the sparrow so I believe He watches over you and me, but New Yorkers are busy people with a lot on their minds.

The night before I’d had dinner with friends, one of whom got quite wrought up about her crazy elderly relatives and said, “I don’t have time for your insanity! Take it someplace else!” which I completely understand.

I went to the cardiologist to get a stress test to see if my heart is still working okay, walked fast on the slanted treadmill with wires stuck to my chest, kept going, wanted to say “Stop!” and didn’t, considered collapsing and didn’t, and finally the machine stopped, and it turns out that my heart isn’t leaking, blood pressure is good. A leaking heart would’ve been a good excuse to become a semi-invalid, which I could be good at. I am not a hiker, jogger, biker, skier, or weight lifter. Doing squats isn’t my idea of a good time. I’ve avoided gyms ever since I was 18. My idea of exercise is stretching while I wait for the elevator. I’m too proud to hail an electric cart at the airport and ask for a lift to a distant gate, but I’ve wanted to. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.

The clinical term for this is simple laziness. I was an indolent child, a lazy student, and my love of inertia led me into a broadcasting career where no skill is required, amiability is enough. Friends of mine became talented guitarists, which is hard work, hard on your hands; I just talked for a living and every so often I put my fingers on the QWERTYUIOP keyboard and wrote a novel or something. It was fun. Years went by and I kept expecting to be punished for my lethargy and lack of ambition and it never happened.

I am related to good workers, my niece the nurse, my cousin the architect, my daughter is a rock climber, my wife once ran a marathon, my grandson is a canoeist and hiker. All I do is speak in whole sentences, some of which are considered humorous by some people.

Do I feel guilty about this? Of course I do. And I know that I need to get off my duff and man up and go out and walk lest I become a burden to my sweetheart and wind up in a rest home and use taxpayers’ money to pay for me to lie around all day watching TV.

So I’m thinking about becoming an avian EMT, walking the streets of Manhattan, looking for prostrate birds, twitching their legs, putting them in paper bags, taking them to a bird ER. Other people have their ideas about how to change the world — recycling, songwriting, investigative journalism, teaching kids to read — but I’m wondering if kindness isn’t the answer to many of our problems — no man stands so tall as when he bends to help a bird. And instead of walking the streets myself, I think I should start a noble organization, Pigeon Patrol, and inspire others to walk the streets and I will be the Executive Director and write a mission statement and fundraise online and hold an annual gala at which I will pay tribute to our patrollers and remind our donors of our high purpose, to change the tone of urban life through an organization that is truly for the birds.

©Garrison Keillor;