Going out to retrieve something from the car, I noticed a bird on the front stoop.

It was just sitting there, its body all puffed out and its feathers bristling, its head like a miniature owl's. I think it was a thrush. The front stoop was a dangerous location -- the neighbor's gray cat likes to hang around the front of our house -- and I guessed that it must be injured. When I approached, it hopped and fluttered into the flowerbed alongside the walk.

I wondered if I should try to help it. And if so, how? It certainly wasn't going to survive out here in front of the house. I was surprised the cat hadn't noticed it yet. While I tried to come up with a plan, the screen door opened and Michael -- last seen eating vanilla ice cream at the dinner table -- came out.

"What are you doing?"
"Oh, I just went to get something from the car. Why don't you go back inside? I'll be there in a minute."
"I want to come outside with you." Then he noticed the bird. "Why is that bird staying there?"
"I think it's injured. Maybe it broke its wing."
"What happens if a bird breaks its wing?"
"Then it can't fly. It can't go where it needs to go."

Just then, I noticed the gray cat coming up the drive in our direction.

Great, I thought. My three-year-old is about to witness a gory scene. I quickly ran to shoo away the cat, who sought refuge under the minivan.

"You should be nice to the cat," my son informed me, repeating guidance I'd given him previously. "You don't need to shoo him like that."

"Michael, your ice cream is melting. We need to go back in."

I quickly ushered him inside the house, closing the door behind both of us and, I thought, abandoning the thrush to near-certain death. Well, what could I do? The mortality rate for yard birds is high. Besides, maybe it would be wrong to intervene in the predator-prey relationship, the population dynamics of my front yard. Last month I found the cat with half of a mouse in its jaws.

Rescuing the bird would mean punishing the cat -- doesn't it have a right to hunt and eat? In any case, I had to deal with Michael, his ice cream, and his bath and bedtime story. There was nothing I could do.

Later, I went to the front door. The bird was still chirping.

When I took Michael upstairs to get him ready for bed, I could hear it from the bedroom window.

I went downstairs and turned on the porch light, them turned it off again. Chirp, chirp.

***

Michael had his bath and then we read "Road Builders" and "Curious George: The Movie." The whole time I kept thinking about the terrified bird, immobile among the flowers, waiting there in the dark. My wife brought Heidi and she lay on the bed with her feet in the air, curled up like a funny animal, looking at me and giggling.

"I should go wheel the trash bin out to the curb," I informed my wife and kids.

Instead, I went and got a shoebox out of the downstairs closet, cut five holes in the lid, and lined it with paper towels. Then I went outside to try and catch the bird.

It was back on the front stoop, motionless and soundless. But when I reached for it, using an old t-shirt, it half-fluttered, half-fell into the flowerbed. It wedged itself between a plant and a corner of the house, making itself hard to reach. I tried and failed two more times, and started to get angry with myself. I was doing more harm than good. With my clumsiness, I'd end up stressing the bird to death -- it probably had a better chance of surviving without my "help".

And then, finally, I caught it. Then I went into the garage and searched for a secure place. The bird chirped from inside the box.

***

The local wildlife rehabilitator had closed up shop at 5, but the one in the next county was available until 11pm, so I called there. He listened to my account and then said, "was it a fledgling?"

"I can't say for sure," I admitted. "It looked like an adult, but I really don't know much about birds."

If it was fledgling, he explained, it would have been better to leave it where it was. Fledglings sometimes exit the nest before they really know how to fly; the parents and other birds stay close and ward off predators. If it was an adult, the best decision was to catch it and put it somewhere safe.

I hadn't heard any sounds indicating parents nearby. On the other hand, I hadn't seen any conspicious signs of injury, such as bleeding. It was very possible that the bird hadn't learned how to fly.

"Hard for me to determine over the phone. You'll have to bring it in tomorrow morning."

"Will it be OK in the garage?" I asked.

"Should be. By this time, it wouldn't be eating anymore. As long as its somewhere dark, quiet and warm, it should be fine."

***

In the morning, I spoke to people at two different wildlife centers -- the local one, and another in Gaithersburg, closer to work. Then I went to the garage. I put the box on the trunk of the Honda and opened it. Inside was a bunch of bird poop and a dead thrush. It was lying on its side, with its head tucked into one corner, its splayed legs resembling a pair of long twigs. It had gray wing feathers, a red-brown area on part of its underbelly, and a longish, slightly hooked beak.

I stood in the garage entrance for awhile, examining it -- still unable to determine if it was a fledgling or an adult. It was big enough to be an adult bird, but now that I had a better view in the daylight, it looked uninjured. Most likely it just couldn't fly yet.

If I'd just left it alone, it might have survived the night, or not. Instead, it died of shock in a cardboard box. My intervention had simultaneously failed to protect the bird and cheated the area predators.

I took the box over to the wooded area near the toolshed and dumped the bird out, then threw the box in the trash. And then I got into my car and drove to work.