We were watching television the other night – well, the TV was on, Rhonda was nodding off, and I was waiting for the news to come on while doing some work – when suddenly my bride sat up straight.
She hit the mute button and ran for the door. I do not understand, nor while I ever comprehend, how people can run in flip flops, but that’s a column for another day.
As she ran down the front porch I heard her say the word “Goats!”
Just that word can mean almost anything in our house: the goats are on the car again. The goats are running down the road. The goats are harassing the dogs. The goats are in the neighbor’s field. The goats are playing volleyball (well, not yet, but it wouldn’t surprise me).
We have had issues lately with coyotes, stray dogs and crackheads, so I grabbed a flashlight, the trusty house revolver, and my shoes, and staggered toward the door.
While I couldn’t hear her exact words, I heard Miss Rhonda using a placating tone, as one would with a dangerous dog or an impaired human. I shifted the flashlight to my walking stick hand and prepared for the worst, even though the dogs weren’t fussing.
Turned out she was reassuring Annie the Nanny, possibly our worst mama-goat, who had just dropped a pretty little pair of kids.
It’s baby season at our house, which means you never know what will happen next, especially since word got out that my wife is a state licensed rehabber.
While our goat flock is (thankfully) far reduced from its previous level, which was approximate to that of the flocks herded across the wilderness by the Children of Israel, other young things have been taking up the slack. Possums, birds, squirrels, and the occasional rabbit make their way into our household, not to mention the feral cats who suddenly become friendly and loving when their have extra mouths to feed.
And they are all hungry.
From mid-May through early July, our home is a discordant symphony of bird chirps, possum sneezes, squirrel screams, owl hoots, bird songs and goat bleats. It’s enough to confuse both Siri and Alexa, neither of which I usually allow to monitor us at home, but just for kicks and giggles one day, I turned both on at feeding time.
We had (if I recall correctly) blue jays, possums, a woodpecker, and possible a fish crow at the time. We may have had Markie the Housetrained Goose then, and if so, she was carrying on a constant stream of consciousness monologue about all things waterfowl, in between biting dogs and hissing at cats. Missus and I were balancing syringes of bird slurry and bottles of formula, while a bummer goat (from the aforementioned Annie) begged for her own bottle.
IPad Siri flickered once and said simply, “Please say that again. I didn’t understand.” I’m pretty sure the Alexa on my phone just cried.
It’s not just cycle of noise one has to deal with during baby season; some of the houseguests can be rather annoying for other reasons. We had an Eastern Screech owl living in the bathroom (aka hospital) for a few days once. She was a lovely little owlet, and enjoyed sitting on my shoulder while I trimmed my beard of a morning.
During the night, however, she owned the world. Ever try to go the bathroom at night without turning the light on, and find yourself jumped by a pre-adolescent owl? I don’t recommend it.
At this writing, we have a baby possum who is just a millimeter of tooth growth away from being able to be released. Rosie is somewhat small for her age, so she frequently escapes her enclosure. Thankfully she easily gets lost in an empty toilet paper roll, so it’s not hard to find her. Just look for the cardboard tube rolling across the floor.
I don’t think you can call yourself a rehabber if you have never had a squirrel run across your face while you were sleeping.
It’s not just at home: whenever I hire a new employee, I ask them how they feel about animals. Most say they love animals, but it seems like an oddly personal question until someone comes in with a great horned owl that was struck by a car and stunned, and the owl suddenly begins flying around the office. I once had a baby possum crawling in my beard while I was on the phone; said possum turned on the camera, so my caller got a closeup view of the side of my head, my ear, two beady little eyes and a pink nose.
There are a few animals we don’t board but simply triage and transport. Rabies vector species (raccoons, foxes and the like) don’t even get to spend the night. We usually end up having a few fawns visit for a day or two during the season. Since I am not spending $10,000 on a federally-approved enclosure, owls, hawks, buzzards and such rarely stay more than a night. Our philanthropy only goes so far, not to mention my innate distrust of the federal government. A possum or owl will just bite you.
Not all the critters we care for are babies, of course. We get calls about adult animals as well.
A few months back, I got a call about a hawk that had rammed into a lady’s vehicle. What should have been an easy pickup turned into an evening of rookie mistakes.
I did not have a carrier or gloves in the vehicle I was driving that day, but the folks were in a hurry, so we met at a convenient place. The bird was showing typical signs of vehicle trauma, so I wrapped it in a sweater for the short ride home.
Less than a mile away, the bird made a miraculous recovery and began flying around in the car.
When the hawk flew in my face, I instinctively reached for him, and he returned the favor. Talons designed for gripping and tearing rabbits and snakes sink very easily into the human hand, and said raptor wasn’t turning loose. I turned down the first convenient road I saw – then I realized it was not just a road, but a notorious local drug market.
Imagine, if you will, a late middle aged white man driving a respectable conservative sedan down a bumpy dirt road that has been the scene of at least two murders, and innumerable other felonies. Now imagine that man has a screeching, snapping, flapping demon from hell attached to his hand. I slowed down, of course, which apparently was a sign that I was a prospective customer, as at least two men from different homes started walking toward me. I figured if I couldn’t get to my pistol, I could at least throw the hawk at them.
I finally got the bird unhooked from my now-bleeding hand. Bird was stuffed into the first available carrier for the night, and left in the back of the car, since it was a pleasant evening.
At first light, I went out to triage the bird and if need be, take him to another rehabber who was better equipped for dealing with such ingratitude.
No need.
The bird had destroyed the carrier and was perched on the back dash, staring at me.
I carefully, slowly ran down all four windows. The bird still stared at me, as if he was deciding which eye he would remove first.
About the time I put on my big gloves, the hawk jumped to the windowsill, pooped (inside my wife’s car) and flew off. Any rescue that’s a release is a successful one, although some successes seem self-defeating.
We change during this time of year, so please forgive our occasional lack of manners. If I offer you a half of a Nekot from my shirt pocket, a raw peanut or a spoonful of wet cat food and bug parts, feel free to refuse. It’s okay to stare if my beard appears to be moving. If Miss Rhonda answers the phone by going “Baaaa!” she isn’t being rude. It’s likely just feeding time, and after all, it’s baby season down on the farm.
