I was sitting quietly at my computer typing a letter to some of my authors on Friday afternoon when Matilda and her friend came bursting through the door.

“There’s a hurt bird” they cried, nearly hysterical.

I walked outside with them and, surely enough; there was a little bird on the sidewalk with a broken wing. In fact, it looked as if the wing was nearly severed. The bird was surprisingly calm and allowed us to approach it.

I talked it over with the friend’s mom and we tried to figure out what to do. We didn’t know.

The girls were quickly getting more and more upset. They were devising plans. They’d nurse it back to health. They’d build it a home outside and allow it to recover.

To a six-year-old, these are reasonable responses. To a weathered adult, I knew that none would work. This bird would either die on the sidewalk or we’d have to get it professional help.

Matilda offered several options. Call 911. No, I’m afraid they only do humans. Call Kismet’s (our cat) vet. Well, as great as he is, I’m sure he has to draw the line at wild animals.

I left them to tend to the bird while I did some impromptu research. Which was like dealing with the seventeen layers of the FBI.

I called the Humane Society. They suggested the Missouri Conservation Department. The Missouri Conservation Department suggested a wildlife refuge, which was an hour and a half away. The wildlife refuge suggested the Wild Bird Rehabilitation Center, which was relatively close by. I called, they told me how to capture the bird and how to get there. We were on the case.

The girls rounded up an old towel and a shoebox. They promptly poked holes in the box and we set out to get the bird.

We placed the towel over the bird and allowed it to calm down. We were then supposed to pick up the bird and place it in the box. But, how to do this without further hurting its already injured wing?

Matilda’s friend’s mom tried. I tried. To no avail. We just couldn’t do it because we were afraid of crushing that delicate wing. Finally I just placed the box next to the bird. I’ll be damned if he didn’t hop right in.

The girls and I rushed to the car and hit the road. To be stopped by rush hour traffic. They opened the windows and started yelling that this was an emergency. However, I didn’t want to be pulled over under suspicion of kidnapped two girls. So I nixed that.

They took turns holding the box, cooing and talking to the bird. For most of the drive, we wondered if the poor thing was alive. Finally, after hitting a bump, he stirred. There was a huge sigh of relief from the backseat.

We arrived at the Wild Bird Rehabilitation Center. It was a tiny hole in the wall on the outskirts of civilized suburbia. It’s a volunteer organization, which seems to garner quite a bit of support.

I filled out the forms while the girls explained the situation to the woman behind the counter. Where he was found, what they think happened, etc. The woman told us that our little friend was a Chimney Swift. It looked like a car had clipped him. (She confirmed that it was a “he”.)

I gave a small donation for his care and inquired about what would happen.

This woman clearly understood the psyche of children. She looked straight at the girls and said, “We’ll look him over and see how badly he’s hurt and treat his injury. If he’s able to fly again, we’ll release him. If not, he’ll live here with us or with one of our volunteers. Because he’s an adult, we’ll release him in your neighborhood.”

She went on to tell us that we could watch his release when that day comes.

Walking back to the car, the girls talked of heroes. They felt that, without a doubt, they were heroes. And, to that bird, perhaps they were.

I was proud of them. They really stood up under pressure. They were insistent that we help the little guy. They pushed for us to find out how to help him. They dropped everything to go on our emergency run to the birdie hospital.

Most kids probably would have sat there feeling helpless, watching the poor bird die. Not my daughter. She helped. And I’m proud of her.

We celebrated their heroism with a cold soda on the drive home. A well-deserved treat for two young heroes of the aviary world.