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cited as being far more difficult than human medicine because the patient can’t say where it hurts, becomes even harder when the patient has no owner to report its recent behavior. And, of course, no owner to pay the bills.
    I once heard a story about a young veterinarian, enthusiastic and altruistic but inexperienced with wildlife, who had agreed to treat an injured screech owlthat a Good Samaritan had dropped off at his office. The vet carried the cardboard box into one of his exam rooms, peered inside, and was dismayed to find that the owl had died. He picked up the owl, a tiny creature about five inches tall, and laid it gently on his table. Unaware that screech owls play dead when stressed, he leaned over to give it a closer look, whereupon the owl sprang to life, launched itself off the table, and sank its talons into the vet’s nose. Unable to remove the owl himself he bellowed for his technicians, but they were at the other end of the hospital and couldn’t hear him. He ended up having to walk through the crowded waiting room with a small owl hanging from his nose, which reportedly he did with surprising aplomb. I don’t know the eventual outcome of the story; I would hope that this experience cemented his relationship with wildlife, although it could very well have had the opposite effect.
    Later that day I stood in one of Alan’s exam rooms, watching as he opened the cardboard carrier a half inch, peered downward, and slowly reached inside. When he removed his hand he was expertly cradling the finch. Alan gazed blandly at the bird, then at me.
    â€œKernels of corn,” he said. “You’re rehabbing kernels of corn.”
    â€œReally!” I said, returning his look. “So are you.”
    Alan can’t help himself. It’s his nature to look for the absurdity in every situation, and as soon as he finds it, he feels compelled to point it out. Unfortunately, as soon as he points it out I feel compelled to start arguing with him, even if I secretly believe that his view may be valid. Such was the case here.
    The person who had found the finch had gone out of his way to make sure the little bird arrived safely at a veterinarian’s office. The veterinarian had donated his expensive time to examine and treat the bird, then had called Maggie. Maggie had driven to the office, picked up the bird, then spent three and a half weeks feeding and caring for him. She had delivered him to me and now here I was, consulting a second normally well-paid veterinarian, whose advice would certainly include an indeterminate number of weeks of additional food and care. Should everything go well, I would eventually drive the bird back to his original location for his release.
    And it was all for a house finch, a common, 23-gram species of songbird. In terms of time, money, and effort—not to mention gasoline—it might have seemed a bit absurd.
    Except that it wasn’t.
    Heaving a weary sigh, Alan went to work. He gently felt along the finch’s wing, almost imperceptibly moving each joint. “Stiff,” he said. “He needs a little physical therapy. Move it like this—back and forth—very slowly. When you feel any resistance, stop. Twice a day for a few days. Then try tossing him into the air. Gently. Just make sure he has something to land on besides the ground.”
    â€œGreat!” I said. “Thanks, Alan!”
    â€œNo problem,” said Alan. “That’ll be eight hundred dollars.”
    The following day I caught the little finch and slowly manipulated his wing, struck anew by the fragility of songbirds and their ability to survive despite the obstacles that humans so carelessly throw into their paths. He was a trouper, wearing a resigned expression as I slowly moved his wing back and forth. And he did look resigned, despite the fact that birds’ faces are fixed and supposedly cannot show expression. The problem is not with the average