One day last week, as I was on my way home from work, Andrew called me. He questioned, as soon as I picked up the phone in the saddest, most pathetic and pitiful voice ever heard, “I found a hawk, what do I do?” I responded, as most logical people would, with various sounds of confusion. Andrew went on to explain that, while walking Sadie Dog, they had stumbled upon what appeared to be a very young, very fluffy, and very angry hawk sort of thing. Andrew, having never participated in the rescue of a bird before, had absolutely no idea how to proceed.
Luckily, at the time I received Andrew’s call, I was nearly home and so I told Andrew not to worry, that I would be home soon and together with the Sadie Dog, we would figure something out.
Once I got home, sure enough, Andrew and Sadie were standing watch over this little angry bird of prey (LAB0P from this point forward). LABoP was found in the back corner of our parking lot, away from things like trees, mamma hawks, and wilderness. Birds of prey do sometimes build nests on the top of buildings, but, looking at the building LABoP was closest to, it didn’t seem likely. Andrew and I reasoned that, had there been a mamma or daddy hawk in the area, we would have seen it as we walk Sadie Dog over there every single day.
Anyway, with convience straight out of a movie, I just happened to have a shoe box and an old sweater in my car that I figured would work just fine in the capture of LABoP. Once LABoP was secured in the box, I did what anyone would do in this situation: I called my mother. And she, being internet savvy and smart and whathaveyou, quickly performed an internet search and provided me with no fewer than 12 phone numbers I could call in order to place this LABoP with someone who knew what the hell LABoPs need and want in order to live happy, successful lives.
So, still standing in front of my apartment building holding a shoe box with LABoP in it, I started calling numbers. I really wanted to go in the house, but Andrew, loving me and all, didn’t want the bird in the house and was, in fact, determined for a brief period of time that because I had touched LABoP, I was going to die before night fall from Avian Bird Flu, or, at the very least, chicken pox.
Eventually, after playing ring around the rosy on the phone, I got someone who was willing to meet me and take LABoP, who, at this point, had given up looking cute and adorable and defenseless and who had given up on being in shock. Instead, LABoP was pissed. It seems after the initial shock of a person picking her up and putting her in a box, she decided she was going to not just make angry bird faces at me, oh no, she was also going to attempt escape as frequently as possible during the car ride to Carytown, because, and this I swear, she knew I was busy driving and didn’t have time for her shenanigans. Amazingly enough though, she didn’t escape from her box with I was driving, although she did stick wings, a beak, and two feet outside of her box. I laughed at her frequently, although, in retrospect, that only seemed to encourage her.
When I got to Carytown, and the predetermined meeting place, the wildlife rehabilitator, Sammye, took one look at LABoP and said I had found a female American Kestrel Falcon. Sammye said she loved them, that they were her favorite bird of prey, and then, as she picked up LABoP, she said that she was a little thin, and clearly dehydrated and, as if to show her agreement with that diagnosis, LABoP sang. And it was beautiful. And my heart melted a little bit.
Because I am super curious, and because I don’t care that a cat was allegedly killed due to its affinity for curiosity, I asked Sammye 125,038 questions, including if I could keep in touch with her to see what happens with LABoP (yes), if LABoP could ever be released back into the great wilderness (yes), if I did the right thing by bringing LABoP in, or if I should have just left her the hell alone (yes, I did the right thing), and so on and so forth.
All in all, it added quite a bit of adventure and fun to an otherwise boring weekday evening. Best of all, I didn’t die from Avian Bird Flu, or even chicken pox. Lucky me!