THE SWALLOWS WERE NESTING. My daughter brought the news. While working on a college campus that summer, she'd noticed that due to campus renovations the swallows had relocated to the loading-dock eaves. However, the eaves were crowded, and many of the mud-daubed nests had to wedge precariously into whatever space was available.
As the nestings grew, more and more fell the two-and-a-half stories onto the loading dock below. Alarmed at the casualty rate, many of the workers began rescuing the foundlings from the coyotes and feral cats who prowled the area after dark. Bonnie picked up five, one of whom became our houseguest for a week.
Named Bed Head because of his distinctive hairdo that made everyone want to attack his little head with a comb, our tiny guest took every grasshopper and tweezersful of cat food offered—often ten or more servings every half hour. The rest of the time he hunkered down, ignoring his surroundings. When we arrived with a meal, he fixed us with a malevolent stare, obviously hating us, the shoe box, and the entire situation.
