Saying Goodbyes

In my profession, unfortunately saying goodbye is not always a happy moment such as in the last post. Certain rehabilitation patients are not always released and sadly must sometime be euthanized. It's never easy to let go, to feel a life has been wasted, but there are not enough cages in the world to hold all of the permanently crippled patients that come through our doors. Some of these can never adjust to the restrictions and adjustments they must make to live in captivity. After all, they must learn to trust the enemy, a foreign species nameless to them, but one that is all powerful in the world of captivity. Once the trust has been forged they may live a life of existing within our educational collections, either passively so in an exhibit, or actively by trusting the human in one step further, to sit on a falconry glove in partnership to carry the torch, to spread awareness of the misfortune than landed it in captivity.

They are called wildlife ambassadors, but I prefer to call them heroes, for the simple heroic act performed every day to take that step out of their world into ours. Our world may have seemed confusing at first for all of the gatherings of such creatures that would stare at them, speak in languages they do not understand, and gradually come to accept that no harm would follow such interactions with our kind.

In those moments of solitude between bird and handler, this hero might even decide to allow this foreign creature into its special world. The human may be treated to a playful nibbling on a loose strand of hair, a vocal greeting, or they may share some ancient ritual with the human, treating them wistfully as they would one of their own species thereby actually crossing over the threshold of our world to invite us into theirs.

As a keeper/rehabilitator of wild animals, you never forget your first, and you realize what an amazing honor it is to have this invitation extended to you by a creature you may have thought unreachable, untouchable. It changes your perspective, it changes you.

My first was Victoria. She was a crested caracara who had spent most of her life in a roadside zoo. She had sustained a broken wing and lost multiple toes during her time spent in captivity. When I first started handling her as a volunteer at the Museum, I was warned "she either likes you or she don't." Gratefully she liked me.

She was always very calm on the glove, seemed to be actively studying me as she cocked her head sideways and made eye contact. I had always been taught that birds of prey do not enjoy physical stroking, that it was improper to subject them to it. Touching was only to acclimate them so that certain functions could be performed safely when doing educational programs.

As I went through the motions of getting her used to me touching her for safety reasons, I noticed that her feathers were raised on her head while I was doing this. I had parrots at home and knew that they did this when they were content and soliciting a head rub from me. So I tentatively and slowly raised my hand and began to gently stroke her head. She looked at me as if to say, "well finally, I'm glad you got the hint." She was loving it and bowed her head down further so I could scratch just the right spot. I was absolutely flabbergasted! Everything I thought I knew about birds of prey had just been blown out of the water.

Every week, I excitedly looked forward to my visits with Victoria. I would take her out last so I could spend the most time with her. I was careful to hide my relationship with her from the public to maintain the professional image so important to wild animal education. I quickly became intensely attached to her. I tried not to think about her estimated age of 30 years, because she was so special to me and we had only just found each other.

Until that day. The memory of every moment is forever burned in my mind. The look on the person's face who told me that there was some bad news. I started crying right away, because I knew which bird it would be. Victoria had renal disease (kidney failure) and was not doing well. I hurried up to the hospital to see her. With tears still in my eyes, I greeted her. She excitedly greeted me with her familiar call. I opened the cage and sitting on the floor stroked her head much to her usual adoration. It seemed like an eternity, like a moment frozen that we spent together for the last time. She was euthanized shortly thereafter. I still think of her sometimes when I walk by the enclosure she lived in when I first came to the museum.

A dear friend likewise just lost the first bird she brought into her education program, a beautiful red-tailed hawk named Thane. Like me, she shared an unusual bond that can never be replaced. Like her, I mourn the loss of this special creature, and her world will forever be touched by the memory of Thane as mine is by Victoria.

So this entry is a hero's solute of sorts. For all the birds who give their lives over to us in trust that we will be able to make some difference for their wild counterparts. It is for Thane, for Victoria, and all the countless rest who are forever burned in the memory of some other out there trying to make a difference. Yes, they are all heroes .