Last Friday night was pretty uneventful — or at least at its start. I had my dinner of Bachelor’s Standby (angel hair pasta and Ragu), read a bit of a crappy mystery, and then had to take the dogs on their nightly walk, this time around the Petrova school.

When I parked and got out, a familiar figure emerged from the darkness. It was Celtic Curse herself, out for HER nightly walk. ‘Twas serendipity at its best: She loves the dogs and likes to walk them, and while I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself, it’s always nice to have one fewer leashed beast to wrangle with.

We walked down Petrova, turned into Pelkey Lane, the CC ahead of me, Daisy ahead of her, yanking her this way and that. I was bringing up the rear with older, slower, and blessedly mellower Jesse.

At Lapan Highway, we headed up to the overpass, when without warning, Daisy bolted to the grass and stopped and stood there, staring down.

“There’s something in the grass!” yelled CC.

“What?” I yelled back.

She stared down in the grass and then said, “It’s a bird.”

“A bird?” I said, reflexively. “What kinda bird?”

“I dunno,” she said. “It’s big and black.”

And indeed it was — it was a raven. It was lying there, alive but unmoving. Obviously, it was injured — I assumed it’d been hit by a car.

I pulled out my penlight and shone it so the raven came into clear view. It’s eyes were clear and they never left mine, which I hope was a sign it wasn’t concussed.

But now what?

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Raven rasslin’

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Believe it or not, this wasn’t my first Injured Ravendeo. Matter of fact, it was my third, so I knew what had to be done.

First, I had to leave CC there to watch the bird and make sure it didn’t struggle and either injure itself more or get into the road. Then I had to take the dogs home, line a box with towels, and come back and put the raven in the box — something a lot easier to write about than to do.

If you’ve never put an injured raven in a box, let’s just say it’s not for the faint of heart. First, ravens are big, strong, smart and armed with a beak that can easily turn you into an instant cyclops. So when I got back to the bird, in addition to a healthy degree of caution, I had on a pair of heavy-duty work gloves with long cuffs.

CC held the flashlight, I put the box near the bird.

I held the towel just over the bird and as I started to wrap it around its body, it erupted. First, he sprang about a yard into the air and when he did, CC screamed, I cursed and my heart tried to pound its way out of my chest walls.

He landed and tried to scramble away, got hung up in some bushes. and stopped moving for a bit. And when he did, I managed to get the towel around him, put him in the box, close the flaps and drive home — all the while with my pulse clocking a cool 175 and my blood pressure about to turn me into a human fountain. Once home, with box flaps securely taped and any major health disaster avoided (mine, not his), I put him in the other bedroom and made sure the door was securely shut, to prevent the prowling and predatory urges of the resident canines and feline.

Soon it was time to go to sleep. Or more exactly, it was time to go to bed. Actually, I did go to sleep, but I couldn’t STAY asleep. Instead, I’d doze off for an hour or so, then pop awake, thinking the bird had died. Then, half asleep and full of dread, I’d check on him, verify he was OK, and get back in bed and lie there wide awake for another hour. After doing this all night, when morning dawned he was still alive, but I felt like the sole survivor of the Apocalypse.

Now the next vital phase began: Finding a wildlife rehabilitator to take him in.

After a bunch of calls and internet searches, I got in touch with a savior in Morrisonville named Rosemary Maglienti. Beyond her savior status, she’s a federally-licensed wildlife rehabilitator who’s been doing it for over 20 years and said she’d gladly take my raven. I only had to do two things. One was take him to Eagle’s Nest Veterinary Hospital in Plattsburgh, where he’d be checked out and then handed over to her. The other was send her a picture of the bird.

Driving him to P’burgh would be a walk in the park, so to speak. Taking his pic would be the stuff of nightmares. First, my nerves were already shot, as I’m sure were the bird’s. And second, I’d have to take the pic with my iPad, since I sure couldn’t with my landline. This would mean I’d be holding the bird down with my gloved hand and holding the iPad with my bare hand, all the while having to deal with the Pal o’ Poe not taking too kindly to my ministrations.

I took a few deep breaths, cut the tape on the box’s flaps, and tried to steel myself for all hell to break loose — which it did.

As soon as I lifted the flaps, the bird made his move. And when he made his, I made mine.

He was two-thirds out of the box and headed into the wild blue when I got a grip on him. He did NOT go gentle into that good day — instead, he struggled mightily. I had it a lot worse than him. All he wanted was U-P and O-U-T. All I wanted him down in the box, but without hurting or further injuring him. Plus, while he was thrashing this way and that, I had to take his pic, with one hand, with an iPad, something as ergonomically-compatible as trying to jump rope blindfolded — on the deck of a storm-tossed ship.

I managed a few shots, then, still holding the bird in place, dropped the iPad, taped up the box, and forced my stomach bile back where it belonged. The pictures would never grace the cover of Audubon magazine, but they were good enough for the rehabber. Or at least they’d BETTER be, cuz my stint as a wildlife photographer was officially at an end.

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Resolution and reflections

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The ride to Pburgh was low-key and before I knew it I was at the vet’s, had handed over the bird, filled out some paperwork and was homeward bound, worry-free … but not for long. After my initial relief of not being responsible for the bird wore off, it was replaced by first, my wondering how he was doing, and second, my worrying that he wasn’t going to survive.

I knew the smartest thing was to be philosophic. You know, like Yeah, I did my best and after that it’d be out of my hands. Accept that there are no guarantees with animal rescues (or anything else), so I’d have make my peace with whatever happened to the bird.

Unfortunately, I’m not made that way. When I was in the Navy, a popular tattoo was Born to Raise Hell. If I’d ever gotten a tat, it would’ve been Born to Worry. That said, I worried about the bird, and I worried so much, I couldn’t do what I should have done, which was to call Rosemary and find out how he did. Finally, on Tuesday, ethics triumphed over anxiety and I made the call.

As soon as I identified myself, I knew it was Hooray for Our Side! The bird had no injuries, diseases or neurological damage, and a full recovery and reintroduction into the wild looked like a sure thing. Rosemary was a bundle of excitement about the raven, but I suspect she’s a bundle of excitement about all her patients, because she proceeded to tell me about all twelve of them she currently is caring for. Apparently the dear girl has every winged creature in her facility, maybe even including Pegasus, Tinkerbell and a fallen angel or two.

Our call ended and she promised to keep in touch, especially to let me know when they’ll bring the raven to its home here and set it free. We said our goodbyes, and after six days of gloom my psyche returned to its normal level of anxiety and despair.

I also did a bunch of self-reflection and came up with a few insights.

First, I thought that while I’m not a spiritual person, saving an injured animal, ANY animal, is as spiritual as it gets.

Second, I thought about religion, specifically the Ten Commandments. Then I thought if I had commandments, what would they be? I mulled over it a lot, really, and came up with only two, which I figured were all-encompassing.

The first is Be Kind. The second is Rescue the Wounded.

And while not stated, it should be understood that “Always” is implied with both of them.