Karma's a Killer (14 page)

I certainly hadn't expected a small, poorly maintained, single-story house. A handwritten sign was taped near the open garage door:
Bring animals in through the garage. Do not knock before entering.

Call me crazy, but this place looked less like an animal hospital and more like somebody's home. And a pretty darned dumpy home at that. I glanced left and right as I walked through the dusty garage. It was crowded, not with cars, but with an assortment of dog crates, dirty and clean towels, large sacks of animal food, and clear plastic bags filled with wooden shavings. I lifted my hand to knock on the door, but remembered the sign and stopped. I slowly pushed it open instead.

The room on the other side had likely once been a large family room. Now it was an animal holding facility. A waist-high metal exam table was set up to the right. Cages filled with owls, blue jays, pigeons, crows—even a chicken—were stacked on shelves lining one side of the room. The other side held dog crates containing a raccoon, three rabbits, a possum, and several bald-tailed rats. The animals watched from their cages with bright, interested eyes.

I glanced through a baby-gate-blocked doorway near the exam table. It led to a kitchen and an open living room, complete with couch, end tables, television set, and a worn leather recliner. I strongly suspected that the rehab center and Judith's home were one and the same. Talk about taking your work home with you.

“Hello, is anyone here?” I whispered the words into the empty space so as not to disturb the animals.

Judith appeared, opened the baby gate, and walked through, drying her hands on a dish towel. She reached toward me, palms up. “I'm ready. Where's the bird?”

“I left him out in the car.” I swallowed. “Umm … he hasn't moved in a while. I think he might be dead.”

She frowned. “It's possible, depending on how badly he was hurt. But they often settle down in the dark. Get him in here and let me take a look at him.”

I removed the box from the passenger seat and reverently carried it into the house. Judith set it on a desk near the door, opened it, and pulled out a limp-looking pigeon. She cradled the bird in her arms, softly stroked the tiny feathers along the back of his neck, and murmured a lullaby. The bird turned toward her voice.

“He's alive, but he's scared as tarnation. What'd you do, chase him?”

I exercised my right to remain silent.

Judith
tsk tskd
and whispered under her breath, “Why don't these fools ever listen to me?” She carried Mister Feathers to the exam table. “Let's see what we've got going on here. I'll need you to help me.”

After she laid a clean towel on the stainless steel table, she placed the bird on top of it and examined him with brisk yet gentle fingers. I couldn't explain it, but the pigeon seemed to relax underneath the spell of her whispered assurances. “It's okay, baby,” she said. “Mommy will take care of you.”

She leaned over the table, brought her face close to the bird, and gently palpated his wings. “Neither of his wings are broken. That's good.” She checked the feathers along his neck and back. Then she deftly flipped him onto his back and continued her gentle but thorough inspection. After several minutes, she stood up straight, looked at me, and shrugged.

“I'm sorry, I can't find any injuries.”

I smiled, feeling unaccountably relieved. “You mean he's okay?”

Her gaze met mine, unflinching. “I don't think so.”

Tears threatened my eyes. I reached forward and touched Judith's wrist, taking care not to startle the bird. “Please. Don't give up. Keep looking.”

Judith began her head-to-tail-feathers examination again. After what felt like three pigeons' lifetimes, she gestured to me. “Hand me that bottle of rubbing alcohol.” She wet a cotton ball and used it to part the feathers on his chest. “Ah, here it is, hidden. I almost missed it.” She pointed to an angry-looking red puncture on his breast. “Looks like a hawk got him. See that bruising? The bleeding was internal, into his chest cavity. That's why he can't fly, and that's why the wound was so hard to find. He's lucky he got away.”

She gestured for me to come to her side of the table. “Hold him for a minute and don't let him move. Be firm now, but gentle.” The bird's heart beat rapidly under my hands, but he seemed significantly calmer than he had been in the parking garage.

“He doesn't seem frightened. Is he in shock?”

Judith looked at me, deadpan. “Nope. He knows I'm trying to help. I'm not acting like some crazy fool chasing him all over the countryside.”

I would have assured her that the bird's and my game of hide-and-seek had taken place in an enclosed parking garage, not the countryside, but somehow I didn't think it would win me any brownie points.

Judith rifled through a stack of medications and pulled out two bottles and a syringe.

“What's that?”

“Antibiotics and pain medication. This poor little thing will need both. You did the right thing bringing him here.”

I hated to ask, but I needed to know. “Do you think he'll make it?”

“That's up to him and God.”

“Does he stand a chance?”

“Of course he does. I've saved birds so mangled that their wings were barely attached. It all depends on whether he makes it through the next couple of days. When my husband gets home tonight and can help, we'll put him under anesthesia, give him some fluids, and clean out the wound. We might put in a couple of stitches. If I were a betting woman, I'd say he'll be all healed up and ready for you to take home before you know it.”

“Home? You mean you expect him to live with me?”

“No, of course not. He's a wild bird. But you should release him back where you found him.”

I visualized the never-ending supply of bird droppings outside my back door. I hoped Mister Feathers would forgive me if I chose a nice, shady spot in Greenwood Park instead.

Judith put him into a small cage underneath a heat lamp.

“Time to leave him be now. He needs to rest. Come with me and I'll buy you a cup of coffee.”

I hated to leave the pigeon, but I suspected she was right. The best thing I could do for him now was to leave him alone. I followed Judith toward the kitchen.

“Do you take cream or—”

A loud squawk interrupted her sentence.

“Oh no you don't!” she yelled. She moved faster and with greater agility than I would have thought possible for a woman of her age and apparent condition. She dove in front of me and snatched a red-tailed hawk off the edge of a rabbit pen.

“That's it, Mr. Hawking. No more freedom for you. If you're feeling good enough to hunt, you need to hang out in your cage.”

She carried the bird like a feathered football to the other side of the room and secured him inside a large dog crate. “Looks like this one will be ready for release any time now.” She patted the top of the crate. “Until then, it's cage time for you, mister. I've got enough trouble without my patients hunting each other.” She continued walking toward the kitchen. Come on now, let's get that coffee.”

I followed her through the baby gate and into the kitchen. She pulled two chipped cups off a dish drying rack, filled them with what smelled like coffee-flavored battery acid, and handed one to me. I stared at it uneasily, wondering which would be more hazardous to my health: drinking the foul-looking brew or insulting Judith by abstaining.

Judith's eyes flashed with humor. “Cheers.” She took a big swig from her cup.

I took a sip from mine and suppressed a gag.

It tasted worse than it smelled. So bad, in fact, that I would have sworn that my hair follicles shuddered. I ignored the annoying sensation the first time, even the second. By the third, I realized the tickling I felt wasn't caused by the coffee. I reached up to brush what I assumed was an errant feather off my scalp.

My hand collided with something.

Something large.

Something large with a sharp, pointed beak.

“Holy crap!”

I whipped toward the cabinet behind me and came face to face with a monster with the biggest, roundest eyes I'd ever seen.

I screamed.

The monster screamed back.

Judith doubled over and laughed so hard I thought she might wet herself. “Oh my golly, I'm sorry.”

Funny, she didn't
look
sorry. In fact, she looked positively giddy.

She wiped the tears from her eyes. “I know I shouldn't laugh, but it's so darned funny. He loves to hide up there and surprise visitors. I should have warned you, but I hate to ruin his fun.” She bowed and chivalrously swept her arm toward the pterodactyl-sized bird. “Kate, meet Spook. He's my resident barred owl.”

I had a feeling I knew how the bird got his name.

Spook continued to stare, unblinking. He walked to the edge of the cabinet top, bobbed his head toward Judith, and made a hooting noise.

Judith shook her finger. “Not now. You've already had your lunch.” She smiled at me. “Go ahead, you can pet him.”

I hesitantly reached out my hand and touched Spook's soft feathers. “You let him wander around loose in here?”

“Why not? It's his home.”

I looked across the room, toward the windows. “Aren't you afraid he'll fly away?”

She shrugged. “He can't. When he came to me a few years ago, his wing was so mangled that it couldn't be saved. I had to amputate.” She pointed across the room. “Same with his buddy over there, only he's a couple of years older.” I followed her fingers. A second owl, bigger than the first, perched on the back of the recliner. “These two can't fly, so they'd never survive in the wild. They live here with me.”

“They're happy as house pets?”

Judith waved toward the birds. “What do you think?”

They certainly seemed happy to me.

“But I have to correct you. These fellows are not house pets. They are wild birds living in captivity for
educational purposes
.” She made finger quotes around the final two words. “Like I told you before, when it comes to the law, verbiage is important. I take those owls to visit grade schools at least twice a year. I even donate their owl pellets.” She pointed to a glass jar filled with what looked like small, foil-wrapped baked potatoes.

I picked one up and examined it curiously. “Owl pellets? What are they? Eggs?”

“They're a digestive byproduct.” I gave her a blank look. “They're basically the parts of prey that an owl can't digest. Science classes use them for dissection. It teaches kids about the cycle of life.”

It suddenly occurred to me that I might well be fingering “pellets” that came out of the wrong end of an owl. I quickly dropped the foil-covered ball back into the jar and wiped my hands on my already-soiled pants.

“I don't understand, Judith. From what you told me at Green Lake, I thought you couldn't keep wild birds or you'd lose your license.”

Judith paused as if considering her words carefully. “I said I couldn't keep wild birds as
pets
. And as I just said, these two are not
pets
.”

“Oh, right. Educational purposes.” I was still confused.

“I'll admit,” Judith continued, “it's a gray area of the law, and I work pretty close to the edge sometimes. I try not to break the rules, but I've been known to bend them on occasion.” She held up her index finger. “Not that I'll ever admit that in public.”

She took another long swig of her coffee and set the mug on the counter. “Birds like these, well, most places would euthanize. But the way I figure it, animals aren't all that much different from humans. We each get one chance at life. The decision to take that life away should be considered very carefully.” She shrugged. “Or at least that's what this old lady thinks.”

“Couldn't they go to a zoo or something?”

“Depends on the animal. Sometimes yes. Most times, no.”

“Do you keep all the animals you help? If they can't be returned to the wild, I mean?”

“Heavens no, child. I'd be shut down for sure. I only keep a few very special ones, like Spook here. Besides, domestication doesn't work for all wildlife. Some could never get used to being around people. Pigeons, ducks, this owl here—for them, it's pretty easy. All I have to do is figure out how to get around the legal bureaucrats. Birds like kingfishers would be miserable. In their case, if they can't be returned to the wild, euthanasia is the only humane option. So far, I've been lucky with Spook and his buddy. The state looks the other way as long as no one complains and I don't take government funding.”

“Government funding?”

“Yes, most rehab centers—most animal shelters, for that matter—operate using grants. But those come with mighty big strings attached.”

“Like what?”

Judith took my mug and set it next to hers on the counter. “Follow me.” She continued her monologue as we walked. “You think I
want
to work out of my garage like some hoarding hobo? I can't afford anything else. I've practically bankrupted my husband and me.”

She pointed at the varied inhabitants of the dog crates, glass enclosures, and cages. “See all these animals? Your pigeon, that squirrel, that rat, those baby bunnies? If I followed the restrictions of the government bureaucrats, not one of them would be alive. To them, those fellows are all nuisance animals—not worth saving. If I took their precious money, no matter how little, I'd have to euthanize every one of them, whether they could be saved or not.”

She scowled. “So I do my best to drum up donations, and my seventy-eight-year-old husband works a day job to pay for the rest. I decided a long time ago that those navy-suited numbskulls could take their government grants and shove them up their white skinny behinds. I will not euthanize a healthy animal without a danged good reason.”