THANK GOD IT'S FRIDAY

BC PIRES

SPRANGALANG, our youngest and newest dog, was named for the late-great Dennis Hall, Draxie and his 'dub of cultural sprangalang,' because our Sprangalang came out of the cane fields and into our yard and hearts just after the real Sprang checked out of this vale of tears and into the void forever. (When asked if he believed in an afterlife, Sprang paused for several seconds, exquisite comic timing, and answered with a question: 'You mean it have people who want

two of this?')

Through the kitchen window, on my doorstep, I saw Sprangalang, the dog, home-name Spranger, wild grin of delight covering his spaniel-ish face, pouncing repeatedly, both front paws together, at something on the ground that was just the size, colour and shape to make me think it was a squash ball.

Until it unfurled and flapped its little wings. It lifted off the kitchen steps and reached shin height before falling to the lawn, where Spranger again pounced.

Out the kitchen door in a flash, I figured out it had to have fallen out of a nest; only then did the tiny shrieks of its parents reach my hearing.

Smaller than the birds Trinis call picoplats, they had a courage out of all proportion to their laughably dismissible size. Mother and father together flew fast, tight circles around Spranger's head repeatedly, throwing him off just enough to give their child a fighting chance.

I was that chance.

Shouting loudly, waving my arms like a Trinidadian winning an argument, I ran full tilt at Spranger. The parent birds, recognising an unlikely ally, got out of my way, up into the air above the action on the ground, still squawking as loudly as their little voices allowed.

I knew what every Trinidadian knows: what is fun for schoolboy is death for crapaud; and what every parent knows: better you lose your own life fighting to protect it than you live to see your child die.

My diversionary force succeeded. Spranger ran several steps away. I turned back towards the bird just in time to see another of our too-many-sometimes dogs, the great hunter Tikka, plunge at it. I shouted Tikka away and picked up the bird.

It was so small, I could cup its whole body, protect it completely, in one hand, without hurting it at all. It looked up at me, too shocked to try to get away from this new threat. 'You're safe,' I said, 'and next time listen to your parents when they say you shouldn't go out.'

The mother and father birds settled in the flamboyant tree's lowest branches, calling quietly to me; I imagined they were showing me where to look for their nest and walked towards the tree. They did not fly away but sat waiting. This was the Hollywood ending.

I opened my hand to tell the little bird every little thing would be all right.

It was dead.

All I held now was a small ball covered in feathers that were, I saw now, too downy. What a brave little thing, to have attempted fl