Wilbur's End

Thought it was worth mentioning that Wilbur met his maker last night. We had tried a few attempts to bring him around - namely homeopathy and then trying to physically brace his jaw so his beak would line up - but it really wasn't happening. He was severely malnourished, dehydrated and generally miserable, and his condition wasn't going to be fixed with our feeble attempts. Short of surgery I don't see how he could have survived.

We tried to make things okay for him before he moved on, feeding him by hand and using a dropper to give him water. There was little question that he would have to die that evening, but it seemed callous to end what was a short and unfair existence without a degree of dignity. At the very least he didn't die thirsty and hungry and alone, three conditions that plagued his brief life.

So, that's our first brush with death and raising animals. As a person who's never dealt with animals as creatures of utility - rather more as companions and friends - this has been extremely distressing, far more than I would have thought. City folk tend to anthropomorphize animals and even inanimate devices, ascribing attributes to them that simply do not exist outside of our heads. I doubt Wilbur was having an existential crisis in his final days, lamenting his place in an uncaring universe. He just was, going about his business as best as he could, probably utterly oblivious to the fact that he was fatally disfigured. I know all of this, but there's still a small but vocal part of my brain that tells me I betrayed a life that depended on me for protection. I suspect that this will fade with time, and that my pragmatic side will win over the long run, but right now it just sucks.