Mixed Practice

Perhaps one of the least pleasant ways to start a week is to be facing a sudden, unexpected moral dilemma.
A client decided to euthanase a black cockatoo chick with a completely backwards knee that might never be normal even after surgery. I took the quietly squalling bundle of fluff out the back. One of the vet nurses sighed, “What a shame. Can’t we do something? If it will have a good quality of life then I’d be proud to find it a home as a pet.”

And then, suddenly the responsibility was on me. Would this little one live or die?

I thought about the corella I’d met up north at the avian specialists who got around with one leg and his beak. I thought about disabled people and their amazing stories, their daily triumphs.
I thought about these birds in the wild, fierce and strong and free. Of all the one-legged seagulls out there.
I thought about how ethically unsound it was to do something without the owner’s permission. If that mattered if my heart told me I should save a life. If I could call the owner and ask. How much trouble I’d be in if my boss found out.
I thought about a huge cockatoo with only one leg and what that would do to his remaining leg. I thought about my own parrot and how much he enjoyed manipulating his food and toys and new objects with one leg while standing on the other. How he stood there eyes half closed in contentment as he gently brushed his cheek feathers with one foot.
I thought about whether I could add another member to my flock of eight birds. About how needy cockatoos could be. About how unpleasant black cockatoos could be as pets. How frustrated it might get if it was given such a life. Would it scream? Would it pluck itself bald? I thought about one day when we wished we had euthanased it to begin with.
I thought about my colleagues and people I’d met who had rescued animals who were differently abled. How those animals were happy and well and living long lives. About the dedication and heroic actions of those people who had given them a chance.

For about fifteen minutes, this little one’s life hung in the balance. He squalled at me, hungry. He was the same size as my own parrot who I loved with all my heart. He was warm and soft and I felt his little bird heart racing away.
I ended his life. It was quiet and painless.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was right.
I hated myself every moment of it.
I hated myself for the rest of the day. And the next. And the next. Until it became another smudge in my mind. Yet another mark on my conscious, another weight to bear. One more life to add to that very long list. The list that would only keep growing.