November 9th, 2003



I picked up a young frogmouth and a blue-tongue lizard.

The lizard had been run over. The back legs were broken and a cut on the belly had exposed all the intestines. I had to euthanase it.

The tawny frogmouth is still only a chick covered in small feathers with fluffy down poking around the edges. A stong wind yesterday blew it from the nest, but the bloke didn't know which tree the nest was in so he couldn't put it back. It's such a young bird it risks being killed by crows, magpies, goannas or the farmer's dogs. So I ended up with a cute, 8" high fluffy grey ball that has a mouth big enough to take a rat. Or a finger. H. called around earlier to pick up the bird, to pass it on to Gillian in Gilgandra who likes frogmoths as much as I like bats.

So a 50% success rate, but the fate of the lizard would be unspeakable if it hadn't come to me.

That's a sort of success I suppose, but I still feel like crap.
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