The True Story of the Worst News Ever.

Several weeks ago, I was at work, filing brochures and writing things in Excel, when my manager came in from the parking lot.

“There’s a bird in the parking lot,” she said, frantically.

“Yes, that’ll happen,” I replied.

“It’s injured,” she clarified.


Being the intrepid being that I am, I left my coworker to man the desk and went out to rescue said bird.

Now, normally I have a pretty hands-off approach to nature. Nature, in my opinion, is something that can pretty much take care of itself (a lot more efficiently than humans can, in fact.) I am outdoorsy in that I like to drink on the patio, provided that it is nice out and not super buggy. I have been camping, but I have little desire to do it again.

However, being that my manager specifically asked me to do something about the bird, and being that my manager decides whether or not I get paid, I (intrepidly) forayed into the wilds of the parking lot with two plastic bags.

The bird, a robin, was sort of hobbling around and feebly flapping one wing. I caught it fairly easily and managed to get it into a box.

I named him Taco.

hnwcassandra taco robin

My coworkers and I decided he should go up to the local wildlife care center, so I went up there, dropped off Taco, filled out a form and left feeling like a good samaritan.


I got a letter in the mail telling me they had to put him down.





WHY would I want to KNOW that??

Hey, remember that bird you saved a few weeks ago that you felt good about and then pretty promptly forgot about? HE DIED. If you’d left him outside, he also would have died, but YOU WOULDN’T GET A MORBID NOTE IN THE MAIL.


Taco, pictured here with his namesake. RIP.

Taco, pictured here with his namesake. RIP.

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