Charlie, who is not Chaplin.

Charlie, it’s a bird, a strawberry, and it’s also my child. No, not in the sense you thought it was my adopted child.

So the case was so. On a hot June morning in 2008, I walked out on the lawn in front of my house and saw a large black crown seated tightly on a pebble tree that grows right in front of the windows. Then I just thought, “Well, to eat somebody came, probably, the devil’s trouble” – and went back home.

A few hours later, I went out again to cut the grass. To my surprise, the crown was still on the cradle and everyone was trying to get something out of there.

I became curious, I approached, the crown, of course, immediately left.

I looked inside the coil – the first thing I saw was a reversed bird nest. “Everything is clear,” I decided, “I got to the smallest...” And then suddenly I didn’t even see or hear it, but rather I felt some kind of choking downstairs. He lifted up, of course. There the bird's child hangs, without feathers, blind, and the yellow cloth has opened up.

This is the seat, a! Okay, I took this miracle in my hand and went home. And the miracle is obviously about to die, and I understand it - who would survive so long without water and food, getting caught up in a cane, especially when all sorts of predators are trying to eat you?

I was somehow not arranged the intention of the child to die, so I started to spat him with water from the pipette. At first, this straw from my water refused, and then suddenly stunned and drowned the whole pipette. Then I realized that I would agree with him.

First of all, I was concerned about housing. He fled again to the culled tree, took from there the overturned nest, dragged it to himself on the loft, and there the yellow claw and settled.

Drinking a baby is good, of course, but it also needs to be fed. And the birds are bitter. Okay, no problem, jump into the car and get food to the nearest pet store. I bought what I needed, some special mixture for chickens, this mixture looked like a regular paste.

We run back home, with a piece of the test in the hand, and there the bird child is already pulling his neck into the whole fool and cries about the fact that he is not fed.

and feeding. And the child, eating, whispered, and imagined, say, Charlie is his name.

I joke, I joke, the child whispered after the patch just and fell asleep right away. He just whispered somehow like the word Charlie, and since then I have called him Charlie.

The first night I slept next to the puppy – was it too little? He did right, as it turned out. Charlie wanted to drink and eat about every hour, so I served him. What next to be? - I need to work, and the puppy obviously will not do without my care. I went and bought a cage, and with Charlie's parent nest, I entered it, and took it to work.

You would see how my colleagues cracked. Here is Vova Sidorov, and he has a cage with a yellow-roast chicken in his hands!

Nothing, my colleagues have become accustomed to this exit.

Charlie was growing up. The whole was operated, his tail slid and he began to swing his wings.

Here I got into my second seat. By naivety, I thought that birds have the ability to fly on the level of instinct. As it turns out, the puppies should be taught to fly just as much as we teach our children to swim.
So I took the business. He first put Charlie on his shoulder, and began to knock himself on his sides with his hands. Type: “Hop, you see Charlie?” Charlie saw it, and took to knock my wings in response. “But now, cowboy, you see?” Ah, like, I see, and in response to me also the same "chop-chop-chop" with wings gives.

At some point, I felt that Charlie was no longer clinging to me as much as holding his wings for the air. Then I decided to do my most desperate thing. I took Charlie in the hand and threw him. I don’t know who was more frightened at the time—I or Charlie—but he flew. He flew badly, but quite successfully and gently landed on the back of the chair on the veranda.

And then we got things easier. Every morning I sat Charlie on my shoulder, and started running with him on the lawn, grinding my hands on my sides, like my wings. At first, Charlie didn't look very well at these excesses of mine, thought, probably, that I mocked him, and then realized that parents don't choose, and if he got such a strange and awkward daddy, then that's the case. And I started to pull my wings into the unison.

I think you can guess that one day Charlie flew by himself. First he flew to the nearby tree, thought, and flew back to me on his head. I pulled him off, stretched out my hand and said, “Charlie, fly.”

He thought a little, and then scattered and escaped in the crown of the tree.

No, I’ve seen him a couple of times – when the lawn was coming out, Charlie was flying and sitting on my shoulder or on my head. Once upon a time, I even stumbled on my head on an old memory. Then disappeared forever.

I know that the birds have a short life, and Charlie is probably old and dead, and for some reason I look around and try to find my Charlie. Even if not Charlie, maybe any of the birds, his daughters, will fly on my shoulder when it comes, and will say that she is Charlie’s daughter.