Buddy flies again
by Deb Mercier / October 22, 2007

We got home the other day from somewhere or other, and I asked my son to go let Newton the wonderdog out of his kennel. Pretty soon I heard, “Mom! Quick! C'mere – quick!” I dropped the junk I was gathering from the car – bags, keys, leashes, peanut butter sandwiches dating back to the Jurassic Period – and sprinted toward the dog kennel, visions of an injured, poisoned, or otherwise frothing dog running through my head.

My son had found a butterfly.

I held the dog at bay, who was indeed frothing, but more out of sheer, eye-rolling happiness that his people were home than a medical condition I think, and we studied the butterfly. His name was Buddy (of course) and he was a magnificent Monarch – all oranges, blacks and whites against the deep, green grass. And when I say deep, I mean deep. Remember those peanut butter sandwiches from the Jurassic? That's about the last time we mowed.

Anyway, back to Buddy.

So here's this Monarch hanging out in the grass. We all ooh-ed and aah-ed and watched him slowly flex his wings for a bit. Then we stepped away from the butterfly, letting him get on with whatever it is that butterflies do.

Apparently, not much, because he was in the exact same spot the next day.

My son came bursting into the house, yelling, “Mom! The butterfly! He's still there! Something's wrong with his wing!” I tried to tell him there's nothing you can do for a butterfly once its wing is broken, but he didn't want to hear it. Instead, I got the “you're such a grown-up” look. He rummaged for a plastic container and was back outside in less than 30 seconds.

Soon, Buddy was hanging out on our kitchen counter with my son, my daughter and her friend, and myself all crowded around the container. Imagine what that must have looked like from Buddy's point of view, especially with compound eyes. He sat there in the container, feebly flexing his wings. Totally at a loss as to what to do, I fell back on the tradition when it comes to the sick, injured, or grief-stricken: I made him some food. Buddy wasn't too interested in the sugar water I whipped up, but the kids were.

They circled the container like crazed squirrels, chattering,
“Can I have sugar water?”
“What does it taste like?”
“Should I get him some leaves?”
“Does he like peanut butter?”
“Maybe he needs a bigger container.”
“Can I have sugar water?”
“What if he gets better and flies around the house?”
“Wow! He peed!”

Buddy's bathroom habits were an instant hit and remained immensely popular for awhile. He seemed to be flexing his wings a little better, and had started trying to climb the sides of the container. I convinced the kids it would be a good idea to let Buddy breathe some fresh air out on the front steps. We all trundled out there, a parade of kids and the honored butterfly. Almost as soon as we had set Buddy's container down, he flapped and fluttered, and managed to hop out onto the steps. We all backed up and gave him some space. The chatter had dropped away, and we just watched. His wings flexed once, twice, three times. He gave another little hop, and you could hear the collective intake of breath from the spectators.

Then, without a sound, we had liftoff.

Buddy fluttered away, a little unsteady but getting stronger, his wings bright against the gray sky. Suddenly, we were whooping and yelling and dancing and high-fiving and flinging our arms in the air enough to embarrass even a hard core football fan.

Here's what gets me – I would have left the butterfly out there in the grass. It was my son, with his stubborn optimism, that gathered the critter up, brought him in, and gave him sanctuary. The butterfly did heal, and he did fly again. All he needed was a helping hand, a safe place to dry out his wings, and time.

You go, Buddy.

© 2007 Deborah Mercier