Poor Birdy

I really hated my cat this morning because she made me feel like an awful awful person. For the third time this week, she brought a bird into the house. For the second time this week, it was a baby bird. For the first time, the bird was still alive. I woke up to the most wild squeaky chirping, and I wondered, how did a bird get in the house? Then I dismissed that thought because a bird couldn't have gotten in the house. The sound stopped. I started to go back to sleep. Then the sound started again, a little further away. I sat up and blurrily saw a gray spot about the size of my cat running out of the room. I put my glasses on and followed her, and the bird was in her mouth. Every time I got close enough to grab it, she picked it up in her mouth and ran away with it again. I had to pull her tail and hold onto it to move her out of the way so I could pick up the bird with a paper towel. I didn't know what to do with it, because it was still alive. I didn't know how to nurse it back to health, and I didn't know how to kill it to put it out of its misery. I put it outside and it tried to stumble away, but didn't really get away. I went back in the house, and went back to sleep. I woke up a few hours later and looked for it; it was laying on it's back and still breathing. I'm not letting the cat outside today as punishment. If I have to be miserable, so does she.