So, yesterday, Catherine walked outside and was immediately accosted by a fluffy, fuzz-tufted baby robin. Hopping madly, chirping insistently, he followed her around our patio and made a good try at flying for a few minutes before settling down.

She was worried for him, seeing as how he was stranded and all, but a quick call to a local bird shelter yielded the usual "Don't disturb him, the parents will take care of him" advice.

Hours later, though, the poor little guy was still standing on the patio, looking out over the lawn, flightless. Chirping infrequently, and occasionally blinking, he was wobbly on his legs and there were no Mom n' Pop robins to be found. Thirty minutes later, it was looking really grim, as he took a few stumbling steps and fell over, unable or unwilling to rise.

I started googling and hopped outside to watch over him while Catherine speed-dialed a few other bird rescues. The folks at Fox Valley Wildlife told her to bring the little guy in, and they'd see if they could nurse him to health. I scooped him up gently (he made a few encouraging kicks to get away beore I settled him into a kleenex-filled box), and Catherine hopped into the car.

This afternoon, Catherine got a call from them -- Chippy (as I've decided to call him) -- made it through. Part of me understands that nature's rough, and that we can't save every little creature that falls off the path. But sitting on the ground next to a weak little robin as it struggled to stand upright, watching it blink at me and then close its eyes, I've never been happier tht humans can give natural selection the finger.

Viva la Chippy!