Cornelius Lives. So Far

Yesterday I wrote a post and we dropped out for some reason and it was lost. Even though it autosaves with regularity it doesn't do much good if we drop out for I can't retrieve it. Not that it matters much.

Cornelius is still with us. He was so sick, so weak, hadn't eaten in four or five days, that I was very close to wrapping him in a tea towel and taking a shovel to him (sounds horrible but without access to lethabarb it's the closest I can get to a humane death - if another, more humane way occurs to me I'd be very glad of it for any kind of death physically imposed is a violent death). I was very depressed thinking of what else I could do and whether I should just end his torture and put him down. Then a thin shaft of sunshine penetrated my gloomy thoughts; 'where there is life there is hope'. Now my mind never shuts up, as I've written before, and it's not as though that little piece of wisdom is unfamiliar to me - but the way that phrase occurred to me - like it was dropped in from outside made it as though a prayer had been answered, as though something or someone was was offering hope. Can't prove, qualify, explain or even make it sound special as I write it but it was special. Where there is life, there is hope. It saved Cornelius' life. I feared that by continuing to treat him while he grew weaker and displayed absolutely no tangible improvement I was being cruel. Like watching someone starve to death. Not only starving to death but starving to death while feeling like crap. But because of that silver phrase I waited. That evening, for the first time, Cornelius ate some seed. He hung over the bowl like an old drunk over spilled whiskey but, happy day! there were husks.

The next morning I wasn't so joyous. He was on the floor of the cage again, swaying, eyes closed, feathers fluffed. It was a fluke. He was going to die. But he rallied again, ate again. And so it has continued. He spends about half the time on the floor, but he continues to eat. He's also preened himself a little, swaying precariously on the perch and looking like he'll topple over at any moment.

Corny is not out of the woods yet. I may wake up one morning to find him stiff on the bottom of the cage. Birds are fragile creatures and he has undergone so much. Yesterday morning was the last time I used a crop needle on him. This morning I direct dosed one drop of Coccivet into his mouth.

I suspect that Tony, who had coccidiosis but was on the mend, introduced it all those weeks ago. Cornelius picked it up and slowly, ever so slowly succumbed. When I think back I think of all the signs that I took for behavioural changes because another budgerigar had been introduced rather than because he was falling ill. He stopped singing, he hung out on a wire at the far end of the verandah, pressed against the wall, he was reluctant to go in his cage at night. I just thought he was guarded because another male - with the exception of Dimitri, whose sex remains a mystery, they are all males on the verandah - had entered his space.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, and very guilt inducing. I wish I had been more alert to the changes and hadn't jumped to conclusions. If I'd really looked and not assumed perhaps Corny would not be enduring this.