I'll tell you whose design I'd like to steal: Scott's. Nice and spare, streamlined, clean. But he can't be an unread, obscure journal-ist so I can fob off the theft as original, can he? No, he's got to be the Canadian poster boy for online journaling, he has to have a devoted readership, he has to be popular. Bastard. I hear he bakes brownies, too.

There's a soundtrack of guilt around here lately. There's a bird living out front, peeping from the bushes all day long, accusing me of being a heartless bastard. And he might be right, because the alternative is too much of a pain in the ass.

It started three or four nights ago at about 2:00 a.m. I was in the den watching something uplifting and educational like Wings on the Discovery Channel, something of that ilk, when this bird started peeping out back. Loud. Really loud. I went to investigate and found it huddled on the patio, trying to jump in through the dog door. Figuring he was just a little disoriented, I tried to shoo him away. He wouldn't shoo. So I picked him up, took him out into the open and did the "Fly! Be free!" bit. No go, that bird was latched onto my finger with a deathgrip. Then I noticed his right wing was a bit droopy. Turns out it's broken.

Well, when you've got two dogs and two cats, all of whom would just love an avian appetizer, and you've got a bird that can't fly, what do you do? If you're a softie, you bring it inside. I am. I did. I set it up in the den, closed all the doors, and went to bed wondering what the hell to do with this bird.

By morning I kept coming up with the same answers over and over again: cage it and feed it and ultimately watch it die in captivity or spend a fortune having a vet put it back together so I could set it free again. Both options sucked, so I opened the door and let him hop his gimpy way outside and into Nature's Master Plan. And what a plan it is...

That little bastard has it made out there, just as long as he keeps a weather eye out for marauding cats. There's another bird -- his mother, or maybe his mate -- who's keeping him fat and happy. Every ten minutes or so he peeps like a chick and this other bird swoops down with a little order of takeout for him. He comes out from hiding, eats, and pops back into hiding again. Considering his condition, I think he's doing all right.

I still feel twinges of guilt about leaving him out there to fend for himself, but I really do think it's better that he die early and free than to live out his days in a cage with our pets drooling at him all day long. Of course, I could always take him to the vet and have that wing fixed...if I could find a vet to do it. We looked. All the vets we talked to don't take wild birds; they say they don't know what to do with them. So all told, I think he's better off outside. He'd live longer if I took him in, but I don't think it'd be a good life. And besides, he's got his own personal chef out there.

And as I sit here writing this, pondering this little guy's fate, he's outside cheeping at me, screaming "Murderer! Bird abuser! Audobon anarchist!" After three days of this he's starting to bug me.