How is a successful rescue defined, anyway?

Last Monday was Labor Day. I labored towards saving a bird that day, a little bird with a broken leg I fondly named Petey. I kept Petey in a box, despite the fact that the campus policeman said we should throw him in the garbage. You just can't throw a living creature in the garbage! I thought. You just can't throw a living creature in the garbage! I said to my roommate. So she let me take Petey home. That night I fed him a variety of foods, since I didn't yet know what he liked to eat best. I gave him some bread crumbs, some rice krispies, and some cantelope. And a little tub of water. That night he didn't seem to eat any of the food, which made me sad. Then the next day Petey died. It was distressing. We put the box on the balcony, so that we didn't have a dead bird in the apartment, and because we weren't quite ready for the funeral yet. A week later, my roommates were not happy that Petey was still in the box, dead, on the balcony; and so to please the crowd I dispensed with the funeral, and placed him gently in the dumpster. That is very different from throwing a living creature in the garbage, I told myself over and over. I told my roommate too, and my friend that carried Petey to the dumpster with me. And yet, somehow, it still felt wrong...