The bird was in shock and unable to deal with the cold and damp environment of the north coast.

She told me she could keep the bird alive for a few days, but she ran her bird rescue operation out of an old airstream in a trailer park and couldn't properly heat it to the standard this critter needed.

In Humboldt, there was a better care facility, but they were going to stop taking birds the following morning. They were at capacity I guess and had issued a warning to all the rehab stations in the area.

The bird would have tk

too get there tonight, and neither of these ladies could make the drive, what with their own patients in need...

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I really wouldn't normally do this, but for whatever reason, I agreed.

I was irritated, but I took the address, and the box, and went back to my rig.

I had to drop the empty trailer in their parking lot and bobtail my tractor through the windiest stretch of forested roadway I'd ever been on...

Anyway. I made it. I dropped the fucking bird to another rehab lady in Humboldt and was ready to say good riddance to the whole situation.

But before I left, I took another peek at my feathered friend to say goodbye...

The thing was much more awake and active in the box, and it looked at me like it knew me or something.

It was so strange, but all of a sudden I felt sort of attached to this thing, like we had bonded or something.

It felt odd leaving. So I asked for a way to keep in touch with the rehab chick. She gave me her number and said I could call anytime...

Well. To tell you the truth, I sort of forgot all about it for about a week. I made my way back up north, picked up my trailer a d headed into Oregon to some little town to pick up another load and head back east...

But, after some time, I found the number in my wallet and decided to call.

What I heard was the worst fucking story I ever heard.

I warn you, it's shocking and upsetting how this story ends... so I want to make sure you're still with me here.

So, let me know if I should continue, or if you've had enough.