The other day, the boys who play in our yard every afternoon brought me a little baby bird. A crested lark. They call it lolimo. It squirmed a bit in their hands, wishing to be out of their clutches, I imagine. I am not sure why they brought it. What did they think I wanted with it? They know I like birds, but why would I want a wounded one? Did they want to show it off to me? (And how did they catch it?) Did they want me to buy it? (Once, I was brought a baby dik dik [tiny gazelle] to buy, which I refused). I can’t imagine that they were hoping I would try to heal it; that isn’t a priority here. I did a quick glance, oh, I see you have a bird. hmmm. That’s all. I wasn’t too interested.
The crested larks are perpetual visitors to our house. Actually perhaps, permanent uninvited guests. They flock to the dog food dishes. We hear them banging their beaks on the metal bowls every day during our lunch. Every day, Brian asks, “what bird is that?” and every day, we answer, “that’s the crested lark.” They also embark on warfare with the somali sparrow and common bulbul and occasionally, the ring-necked dove, over the bird bath in my garden. Usually, it is the tiny somali sparrows who dominate the bath, and the larks, who prefer the ground anyway, look for little puddles left over from where our water tank has overflowed.
Yesterday, I saw that little crested lark again. This time, it was lying on the dirt, in a position not normally associated with birds. It was dead and dried. I walked past it, not surprised, and not saddened. Death is a reality here, a real part of life.
Last evening then, I see it for a third time. Now, it is hanging from the jaws of our dog, who has discovered it and transformed the crisp corpse into a doggy snack. At least this way I don’t have to get a shovel and fling it over the fence.
I forget all about the little lark until, today, at lunchtime, I hear the birds banging on the dogs’ bowls.