I woke up early again today, after spending many hours throughout the night trying to remember if we leave tomorrow or the day after. I had anxiety dreams that consisted of coaching a young girls’ soccer team, while simultaneously trying to get my laptop to work, and then learning that I was to take the soccer team on a trip to London, where the itinerary included “Dali Lama: The Musical.”

So I got up, because I simply couldn’t take any more of the mental nonsense. I fed Ruthie, and then let her out for her morning pee. On my porch was a beautiful yellow-breasted finch, just sitting there, rather serenely. Until I noticed the blood. It was a tiny spray that surrounded its left wing. I crouched down and the bird didn’t even flinch; she was alive, but definitely hurt. She’d obviously hit the window. I didn’t know what to do. I remember reading an essay of Mary Oliver’s where she takes in a bird and feeds it water from a spoon. I have none of these talents. I am pathetically urban.

Ruthie came up from her sniff around the yard, and didn’t even notice the finch. She is no bird dog, despite allegedly actually being a bird dog. I watched the finch for a while, then decided she was just trying to get her wits about her after suffering a significant knock on the head, so left her to her recovery. After I closed the door, Ruthie noticed the bird through the window. She growled. And growled more. Then she barked. This startled the bird into flying erratically, right into the path of a waiting magpie. The magpie pounced on the finch and pecked her to death, and then carried her off to a dark corner of the yard.

What a terrible way to go. What an ominous start to the day.

I had named her Midge.