(Update on yesterday's post: I am still alive; sore, but nothing appears to be broken.)
We have a mystery to solve. One day last week, Andy came in from putting the dogs out, with a puzzled look on his face. He said it looked like a bird had exploded in the backyard. Now, Jack and Rooney were not suspects. They are always supervised when they're outside, mainly because I don't want them to eat any "mushrooms" that may have popped up overnight in the yard. Also, I want to be sure no hapless creature gets Bullied. One year, a mother bird had built her nest in the neighbor's oak tree which hangs over our yard. When the babies left the nest, they fell into our backyard. Unfortunately, the Jack Russell we had at the time got to them before I could.
So there, in the grass, was a huge pile of bluish/gray feathers. Nothing else. No skin or blood. Just a big poof of feathers. Whatever did this was meticulous and took its time. Strange, huh? Of course, the dogs are still drawn to the scene of the crime even though the feathers have been picked up. If only they could talk.
I've mentioned before that my mother liked to have a bird in a cage in the house. I always wanted to set them free but she would have killed me. Ironically, she was a bird lover, but she didn't seem to see the disparity between loving creatures that are so free and caging one so it isn't. There sat a poor little canary/finch/parakeet, all alone in a tiny cage, while mother sat in her room with her binoculars and bird book, pointing out every species to a very myopic and uninterested me. I could never see the birds she tried to point out. She would say, "See! There's a blue twitted poof knot! Don't you see it? Right there, in that tree a mile away!" God, help me. I never saw the thing, which would really ruffle her feathers. She was far-sighted and, of course, I was the opposite - near sighted - so there you have it. Plus, I couldn't figure out how to use the binoculars over my glasses. I disappointed mother that way.
Don't get me wrong. I love birds - in my own way. They should be free to fly and soar and sing and - well - you get the picture. I am all for the Audubon people who like to track them and get all excited when they find a rare bird. I am not happy about people who kill birds for sport. I am especially fond of ducks. Last year, I was mentioned in our HOA newsletter in an article about the problem of speeders. I had made the observation to the author of the article about finding a lone duck wandering around at the end of our street. Knowing ducks mate for life, I just knew something had happened to her mate. Sure enough, when I turned the corner, there he was, dead on the street. I was pissed. So, I became known as "the duck lady" for awhile. I've been called worse.
I remember one day, when both of my then teenaged kids were taking off for various destinations. We said our tearful goodbyes, and I went back inside to have a good "empty nest" cry. A few moments later, the phone rang. It was my daughter saying they needed my help. I imagined a massive car accident involving a semi, but they couldn't have been out of the neighborhood yet! I asked where they were and she said at the end of the street! They were five houses away. I ran out, and sure enough, there was my son, walking around in circles, following a seagull! The poor bird had one end of a bass hook caught in its beak, the other end in its wing. It literally could only walk in a circle. We live near a golf course which has a retention pond. People like to fish there like it's the Gulf of Mexico. Honestly, this lure was about five inches long with a treble hook on each end; designed to catch Marlin. Don't ask me why a seagull was this far inland, but I guess it makes sense because, by the looks of things, it didn't seem very smart. My son was trying to capture it. He grabbed a throw rug out of his car, tossed it over the bird and scooped it up. He handed the bird to me, confident Mom would handle it. We said our goodbyes again, and I went about trying to figure out what to do with this poor bird.
I remember putting it in my car, but I didn't think to cage it! As I was driving the terrified bird to the vet's office, about three miles away, it tried to escape from under the rug. I was trying to calm the bird with one hand while steering the car with the other. When I got to the vet's I scooped up the bird and ran in - looking like a wild woman. I remember hearing somebody say, "What does she have now?" When I showed them, everyone sprang into action resembling a triage unit in an ER. They put a tiny anesthesia cone over its beak to sedate it while the vet carefully removed first one hook then the other. I was handed the groggy bird and got back in the car. This is where the story takes a very interesting turn. Remember, the (very large) bird had been incapacitated by a hook when I drove to the vet and sedated when I left - but never confined. As I was driving the thirty odd miles to the bird sanctuary, where he was supposed to recuperate from his ordeal, he started to wake up. There I was, on the highway, with a very confused, terrified, unfettered by a bass hook - seagull. The rug, which had aided me in confining him on the drive to the vet, was now useless. All I could do was pray. Don't ask me why, but I turned on the radio to some rock station. The music calmed him! Every time a song stopped, he would get agitated again! Song on - calm bird. What a day that was.
Life is full of adventures or hassles. It's up to us to decide which definition to choose.
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| Cats in a "cage" - birds free ;-) |
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