Predators I Have Known - Alan Dean Foster [56]
It is difficult to imagine anything more capable of distracting someone from his work than the sight of a full-grown red-tailed hawk streaking past the window. As my chair sits but a few feet from the glass and the gimlet-eyed patrolling raptor rockets by barely a couple of yards away on the other side of it, the occurance is more than sufficient to break my concentration no matter how often it happens. Now and then, the hawk will glance through the glass in my direction. I treasure each such encounter far more than any work it may have cost me.
I have watched while the hawks dive on prey; sometimes successfully, more often not. Once, walking around to the rear of our house, I found one sitting on one of our patio benches busily disemboweling a rabbit. It stayed there, intent on its meal, until my motionless staring presence must have finally disturbed it enough so that it flew off, its ragged meal hanging limply from its talons. The reason for its departure was wholly mine. I take the blame entirely.
Nobody likes to be gawked at while they’re eating.
The roof of my study once boasted a large, old-fashioned, but at the time necessary UHF television antenna. After years of faithful service, the picture it delivered began to deteriorate until it became unwatchable. A technician I spoke to suggested there might be a problem with the antenna. There was.
Having apparently decided that at least for a change the feel of aluminum against its feet was preferable to that of wood, one of our resident red-tailed hawks had been utilizing the antenna on a daily basis as a suitable place from which to keep watch on the nearby creek. I tolerated the situation until it grew bored of the spot. Then I changed the antenna, opting in the process for one significantly less perchlike in design. My television reception improved immediately, and I am sure the raptor did not go hungry.
* * *
I frequently work on into the night. One cool autumn’s eve I emerged from my study to see something sizable occupying the middle of our driveway. In the fading light I at first took it to be a package that had fallen out of our car. I am sure the owl that I mistook for a misplaced grocery bag would have been grievously insulted at the gaffe.
It was a great horned owl (Bubo virginianus), huge of eye and robust of body. What was it doing standing on the ground in our driveway? As I approached, advancing as patiently as I could, it continued to pose there gazing back at me. The body and the great wings were the color of steel flecked with obsidian. The bird was huge, stunning. As I came closer, advancing hunched over and taking short steps, it opened its beak and yelled at me: Kree-elp, kree-elp! Was it hurt? Its wings and body appeared undamaged. Perhaps it was sick, or just old. Possibly . . .
“It’ll take your finger off.”
Emerging from the house, JoAnn had come up the driveway to look for me and had instead come upon this entirely unexpected bird-husband encounter.
I halted my advance. The owl’s beak and talons appeared to be in as good condition as the rest of him. While I wanted to pick up the bird, to check it for buckshot or wire, to calm it, I knew that JoAnn was right. The owl was not likely to respond to my touch by lying back and closing its eyes. It was much more apt to react defensively.
“We could call the vet,” I suggested.
She sighed. “It’s after hours. Maybe the forest service.” She indicated the silently staring visitor. “If it’s still here tomorrow.”
I nodded. “I know, I know.” As usual, where animals were concerned, JoAnn had voiced the right thing to do.
She turned to go back to the house. “It’s getting dark. And cold. Are you coming?”
“In a little while.”
I stayed with the great horned owl for at least another hour.