Flyaway (19 page)

Returning a short time later I climbed out of the car, shrugged into Mac's lacrosse helmet and shoulder pads, and pulled on my elbow-length leather raptor gloves. I reached into a carrier and removed the sizable young owl, who glared and snapped his beak defensively. Walking toward the nest, I held him up over my head. I felt a sudden solidarity with those scantily clad young women who stroll around the ring at boxing matches, holding placards with numbers over their heads; except for the fact that I was middle-aged, wearing body armor, and holding a great horned owl, our jobs seemed strangely similar.

The adult owl froze, then crouched slightly and stared at me with frightening intensity. On the other side of the road, across from the nest, was a heavily wooded area eventually leading to open fields. I started walking backward into the woods, keeping my eyes on her, remembering a friend who took care of an enormous flight cage full of great horneds. As long as he was facing them, he said, the owls would watch him from the highest perch without moving a muscle; but the one time he turned away from them, he received a blow to the back of the head that knocked him flat. He scrambled to his feet to find the owls all in a row, identically impassive, and never found out who had actually committed the assault.

I had no doubt as to the identity of this potential perpetrator. Walking backward through the woods is not an activity I'd recommend, especially while carrying a furiously struggling owlet and being pursued by its outraged mother. I sidled deeper into the woods, trying to avoid tripping over forest debris as the adult flew from limb to limb behind me. Finally I found a huge old leafy maple,
probably struck by lightning, that had broken about four feet above the ground. Propped up by the surrounding trees it lay at an angle, its crown a good nine or ten feet high. Cradling the owlet in the crook of my elbow, I climbed onto the trunk and slid up the tree, cursing the fact that I'd been in too much of a hurry to change from shorts to long pants. When I reached the base of the tree's crown I placed the owlet ahead of me, where he had a wide choice of branches and limbs on which to perch. I inched back down the tree, hoping the adult would accept the strips of skin I was leaving on the maple's bark as penance for touching her baby and grant me a few more minutes of clemency.

Glaring venomously she let me slink away, then flew closer to where her owlet perched. For several minutes I watched through the trees, hoping to see the reunion, but as long as I watched she would go no farther. I emerged from the woods dirty, slightly bloody, and trailing various pieces of lacrosse equipment. A passing car slowed down; the occupants gave me a quick once-over, then sped up and drove away.

The matriarch must finally have had enough of human interference. When I returned early the next morning, all three owls were gone.

It was spring, it was warm, the trees were budding, and I was so happy to see the returning migrants that I couldn't imagine ever having too many birds—even when Maggie announced that she was moving nearly an hour away and that I would probably be getting all her bird calls.

The phoebes had returned, as always, on April 1. Though not a strikingly colored bird, the eastern phoebe is irresistibly jaunty, spending much of its time energetically searching for flying insects, bobbing its tail, and whistling its signature two-note “phee-bee! phee-bee!” Our resident phoebes' nest sits on a small platform under one of the eaves of John's office, safe from weather and the larger predatory birds. When I hear the first phoebe announce its cheerful return I give a gasp of delight: once again they've survived their perilous migration, and spring can't be far behind.

Many birds travel thousands of miles twice a year, and thanks to the rapaciousness of real estate developers, each year their journey becomes more hazardous and difficult. Still, they are amazingly consistent when it comes to arrival and departure dates, although no one is quite sure how they manage to do it. The rose-breasted grosbeaks arrive at our house on April 29, spend a couple of days helping themselves to the plentiful seed supply, then continue north to their summer homes. At the beginning of my second year of home bird rehab I received what would become a standard springtime phone call.

“Can you help me?” asked the distraught voice. “I have the most beautiful bird in my yard but someone must have shot him! He's all bloody on the chest! Please, can you come over and get him?”

“Is he black and white with a big thick beak?” I asked. “Not to worry—it's a rose-breasted grosbeak. They're supposed to look like that.”

“Ohhhh,” said the voice. “What a relief! I was sure he was dying, and I couldn't figure out why he kept acting like he didn't care.”

By May 1, the hummingbird feeders have been up for a week, just in case one of the ruby-throats arrives early. All summer they circle the house at warp speed, splendidly iridescent and outrageously pugnacious, challenging each other to duels and vigorously defending their feeders even though there are five from which to choose. Although they weigh less than a nickel, their battles are epic: my friend Jan recalls seeing two male hummingbirds locked in combat fall through the air and roll around on the ground, neither willing to relinquish its hold on the other, both too furious to pay any attention to the huge human standing beside them.

My first Canada goose arrived soon thereafter. The bane of golfers and soccer players, Canada geese are undeniably messy; like most birds, they have no reason not to be. I had always considered Canada geese to be handsome birds with voices like wind chimes, a stirring sight when flying in their V-formations. But I didn't really appreciate them until Ponie arrived with one in a box.

Ponie Sheehan truly loves Canada geese. Anti-geese arguments cut no ice with her; she counters with poetic descriptions of their elegance, their resourcefulness, and their devotion to family. At work in a congested Westchester area near a large pond, Ponie would watch the resident geese with trepidation as they dodged the cars speeding in and out of the parking lot. One day she spotted a goose limping heavily and falling over. Grabbing a large cardboard box, she raced out to the rescue.

I lifted the goose out of the box and put her down in our garage. She was alert and bright-eyed, only slightly thin, and unperturbed by the two humans
handling her. She was unable to bear any weight on her right leg, which was swollen and hot to the touch.

“I'll get her X-rayed, we'll splint it, and you'll probably have her back in a few weeks,” I said, watching Ponie's face register concern, delight, and then such open gratitude that I felt I should reassess my usually negative view of the human race. “Why do they call you Ponie?” I asked.

“My siblings wanted a pony, not a baby sister,” she said with a grin.

Carol Popolow X-rayed the goose, concluded that it was a spiral break trying to mend, then immobilized her leg with a splint and a snowshoe. One round of antibiotics, one round of worming medication, a couple of rechecks, and in three weeks her bone would be healed. Meanwhile all that remained was to feed her, keep her quiet, and clean up prodigious amounts of goose doo. When I appeared to do my chores she would watch me quietly, limping obediently to the other side of the shed so I could clean out her pen, as if living in a clinic and recuperating from a broken leg were something she did all the time.

Ponie called a few days later. “I'm sorry to bother you,” she said in her soft voice, “but I was just wondering how the goose was doing. Is she better? Do you think I might be able to come by and see her?”

Had the goose been any other kind of bird I would have come up with an excuse, as recovering wild birds need as little contact with people as possible. But although some Canada geese can be quite wild and fearful, many are practically domesticated; as long as you didn't try to hold her down, this one belonged in the latter category. “Sure,” I said. “Saturday morning is fine.”

“Oh, thank you!” said Ponie. “Really, I don't know how to thank you.”

“You should be a rehabber,” I said.

“Someday,” sighed Ponie.

During the next few days of beautiful spring weather we accumulated five nestlings, a black-capped chickadee and a mourning dove; and John reminded me that it was goshawk nesting season by staggering through the door clutching the back of his head.

“Jesus Christ!” he gasped. “One of those birds you're always talking about
got me from behind!” As it turned out, he had been running down a trail, minding his own business, when he was nearly leveled by what he thought was a good-sized rock. “There I am, ready to pound the guy who did it,” he said, looking aggrieved, “and I can't reach him
because he's perched on a tree limb
.”

As it turned out, the goshawks had finally abandoned their old nest and built another one. From a goshawk's point of view, the new location couldn't have been better: high in an oak tree in a heavily wooded area, right beside a wide old carriage trail that provided a little space around the nest. From a human's point of view, the location couldn't have been worse: although few people used the park, those who did generally took that particular trail. I sympathized and exclaimed over John's bloody head, told him firmly that he should not use that trail again until the nestlings had fledged, then raced off into the woods.

I rounded a slight curve in the trail, my eyes trained on the tops of the trees, and there it was: a good-size, well-constructed nest built firmly in a high tree crotch. Standing sentry on the rim, to my delight, was the female goshawk.
I wonder if she remembers me?
I thought hopefully. We stared at each other until she
broke the silence with her slow chant, which built in volume and intensity until it became a war cry that propelled her off her nest and straight toward me.

Northern Goshawk

The carriage trail was like a runway, wide and unobstructed, and for a hundred feet or so I had a clear view of her amazingly swift approach: the quick beat of her powerful wings, the way her streamlined body sliced through the air, the bright glare of her dark red eyes that locked into mine as she hurtled toward me. She was the most beautiful, graceful, lethal creature I'd ever seen in my life, and I was so awestruck that I almost forgot to duck.

But duck I did, and when she banked up into a tree, I whirled away through the forest like Julie Andrews in
The Sound of Music
, my rapture triggered not by a sunny day in the Alps but by an angry meat eater who had just tried to behead me. Everyone has her little quirks, I thought giddily as I tangoed into the kitchen.

“When can we go?” cried the kids after I'd regaled them with my adventure. “When can we see her?”

“Uhhhhhh,” I stuttered, once again cursing my so-called parenting skills. “I'm sorry—I really am—but it's awfully dangerous, and we all have to leave them alone so they can have their babies.”

“What?” they howled. “You never let us do anything!”

“Really!” said John, shaking his head. “Not letting a psychotic bird of prey maim your children—what's the matter with you?”

“That's right!” they wailed. “What's the matter with you?”

“Nobody can go there anymore,” I said firmly. “I'm going to put signs up on both ends of the trail telling people not to hike there.”

“Except for me,” said John, “because that's my running trail.”

“No way!” I replied. “You can go back at the end of July.”

“I'll wear a bicycle helmet,” he countered.

“A bicycle helmet!” I snorted. “Try a suit of armor!”

The following day I collected half a dozen
SENSITIVE WILDLIFE AREA—DO NOT ENTER
signs from the local Audubon center and posted them on both ends of the trail. I painted two of my own that announced
DANGER—NESTING HAWKS
and put them up for good measure. While the thought of a large pair of raptors chasing terrified people out of the woods filled me with misanthropic glee, I was fearful of what could happen to the birds if they scalped someone unsympathetic. Occasionally my concern would boil over at the wrong moment, as it did when John lurched through the kitchen door, blood flowing down his face from a wound delivered straight through the air vent of his bicycle helmet.

“Oh, my God!” I gasped. “What did you do to that bird?”

John gazed at me through narrowed eyes. “The day I finally arrange for your competency hearing,” he said, “you'd better hope I don't bring this up.”

If the female was the sentry guarding base camp, the male was the scout patrolling the perimeter. Although John and I both avoided the nest trail, occasionally I would encounter the male some distance from the nest. Quiet and stealthy, he would appear out of nowhere and rocket past my head, the tip of his wing a few inches from my ear. I'd hear a
ffffsssSSSHHOOOP
! and by the time I reacted—by jumping two feet into the air and stumbling off the trail—he'd be regarding me silently from a tree limb ten or fifteen feet over my head. Regaining my shattered equilibrium I would stare back and he'd let out a series of soft whistles, turning my heart to jelly and making me vow to kill anyone who so much as raised his voice around him. When I continued my run he'd fly past me once more, this time at hip level, then veer off into the woods.

After one of these encounters I returned home to find a yellow Toyota in my driveway. A petite redheaded woman smiled at me from the driver's seat, then opened the door and climbed out. Tanya turned out to be a rehabber who lived a half hour to the north.

“Hi!” she said. “I'm sorry to just appear like this—I've just come back from a vet in Westchester. I keep hearing your name, and I thought I'd stop in and say hello. So you do birds! And you have a flight cage!”

I showed Tanya around. “Your flight cage is awesome,” she said when we returned to her car. “Listen, if I end up with birds, can I bring them to you? I'd rather not do birds if I can avoid it. Here—see? I have this grackle. Somebody found him on the ground. I had him X-rayed and there's nothing broken, but
he's kind of unsteady. The vet said he probably hit a window and just needs some time. Would you want to take him?”

“Sure,” I said. “I like grackles.”

“Oh, thank you, that would be terrific!” said Tanya. “Here, let me give you some grapes. I just went to the store and he really likes them.”

We set the grackle up in one of the reptariums in the shed, putting in two different-size perches high enough to get his long tail off the ground. He was an otherwise healthy adult, his glossy feathers appearing black at first but then flashing bronze, blue, green, and purple when they caught the light. By now Null and Void would look just like him, I thought.

“I'm so glad you're here,” said Tanya as she was leaving. “People call me all the time with birds, and I just can't say no.”

I had no idea how much those words would come to haunt me.