The great bird was flapping his powerful wings but could onlylift a couple of feet off the ground.
Thinking he was struggling with a hapless prey, I watched to makesure the victim wasn't my cat, Tillie, who had escaped three daysearlier. Then I realized the bird was injured.
What should I do? I was leaving for my volunteer work at Christ'sKitchen when I spied this new drama unfolding.
I sprang into action. Grabbing the cat carrier and a pair ofgloves, I hurried out to rescue the struggling raptor. He hadreached the edge of the forest and was pinned in the branches of afallen tree. His unblinking stare met mine; his sharp beak gapedopen, panting, as I made my approach. It was an unspoken covenant: Iwould help him; he, in turn, would not bite me.
I folded the hawk's beautiful brindled wings, pressing them closeto his quivering body, and thrust him headfirst into the small cage.He filled the tiny cage and was forced to lie on his side. I wouldhave to leave him for a few hours, but he would be warm and safeinside my basement.
I shared my morning's adventure with my fellow workers. No onehad a clear plan for the next step.
I left the kitchen early and rushed home to peer through the airholes of the crate. The bird lay still, deathlike. I opened the doorand gently shook the carrier to slide him free. He lodged solidly,feathers fluttering, as I again turned the cage end for end. Whatthe deuce? He must be clinging to the sides with his talons. Is hedead or alive? Not a peep.
In my addled state, I had forgotten that the carrier top snapsoff. With trembling fingers, I unsnapped the catches and lifted thetop. I was greeted by a full array of downy feathers, wings spreadwide. My crippled charge again stared at me over his awesome beak.
Leaving my friend, which I'd begun to think of as Avitar, Ihurried upstairs to call the Three Rivers Center, in Summers County.While I searched the Internet for contact information, I heard myAvitar wreaking havoc on my work area downstairs. I quickly placedthe call.
A youthful voice at Three Rivers told me that I'd done the rightthing and asked if I could take the hawk to Animal Care Associates,on Oakwood Road. "No cost to you," he assured me. "They'll treat thebird, then send him on to us. More than likely, he's just flown intoa window."
I was eager to deliver Avitar to healing hands.
"We'll give him water," the friendly folks at Animal Carepromised, "and we've taken a frozen mouse out for him. The doctorwill assess him to determine if he can go on to rehab, but he lookshealthy enough."
I breathed a sigh of relief. They asked that I sign a paper ofrelease. Of course I released him - he was never mine.
The next day, I called to check on the hawk. He was beingtreated, which meant he would be sent on to Three Rivers for rehab.
Two days later, with the first blustery sign of snow, Tilliereturned, cold and hungry. She made a beeline for her food bowl, andthen came to settle on the sofa like my dearest companion.
"I'm mad at you, Cat. You went hunting for five days and what didyou catch? I stayed home and caught a bigger bird than you'll eversee. Some huntress you are."
Tillie flicked her pink tongue over her paw, and then turned herunblinking yellow eyes to meet mine. Whatever.
Jerrie Allen Kent, of Hurricane, may be e-mailed atoldgadfly@suddenlink.net.
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