And after all of this happened, he wrapped it in newspaper and put it in the neighbor's yard.

Last night the Good Doctor found a small, gray, soft bird on his front porch. He'd turned on the porch light, and as he'd done it, something fell. He opened the door and it lay there, with its bird legs up in the air. He picked it up, brought it inside. No blood, no damage, no broken hollow bones. But a warm body.

The Good Doctor tried to save the bird by pushing the fingerpads of his middle and index fingers on the bird's chest. He gave the bird CPR. He craddled the soft bird in palm, pet the short-feathered, fuzzy head, pressed lightly on its small body, checking. For something. The bird moved, his black eyes shifted or opened or closed. Or at least the Good Doctor thought so.

But he died, or he remained dead. Depending.

Last night when I talked to him on the phone, the GD said that the bird had flown into the window, but as we continued to talk, as he remembered examining the bird, he thought it might be odd about the no blood or damage. "Maybe he was electrocuted," I said. "His body was warm."

"Maybe," the GD said.

Or maybe he'd ingested the gallons of spider poison the GD scattered around his house. Or maybe he'd just been flying, flying, flying and out of nowhere, he'd fallen. He'd stopped flying-flying and he'd fallen and landed on the GD's front porch. He wasn't meant to be saved, just seen in his last moments--to prove that for awhile, he'd been alive.