Feathered Missiles of Death

This column was originally published on January 11, 2015, in the Sierra Vista Herald. 

My wife likes pets.  This is an understatement that will cause those readers out there who know her to snicker under their breath or, more likely, emit a loud guffaw.  She is the living example of Doctor Doolittle.  It isn’t just that she takes care of animals, she heals them, and yes, she talks to them. 

The problem is, the word has gotten out.  Wounded and stray animals always somehow manage to find their way to our house.  One night the neighbors brought their cat over.  It had been missing for several days, and when it finally showed up, it was puffy—like it was inflated with air. This was a medical phenomenon that I was not familiar with, and I had no idea how to deflate a puffer-cat.  My wife, on the other hand, knew what to do and correctly advised them—which was to do nothing.   The cat would deflate on its own, she surmised.  My solution would have been less helpful and probably would have involved a rolling pin and power tools. 

When we were living in Italy, my wife found a fledgling bird one day while out for a walk with her two rescue dogs.  She brought it home and nursed it to health and raised it, which was no easy task. A cage had to be built, and eye-dropper feedings had to be accomplished throughout the day and night. The kids named it Petrie, after the flying dinosaur character in the film, The Land Before Time. Petrie had a damaged leg but otherwise appeared to be healthy.  Finally, the day came to release Petrie into the wild.  We gathered on the balcony of our home, and I held Petrie up in my hands, and he flew off and landed in the nearest tree in our vegetable garden below.  Mission accomplished.  Later, while walking through the garden, Petrie came hopping up to me.  Uh oh.  I thought briefly of ignoring him and letting nature, in the form of stray cats, take care of the problem.  I couldn’t do it though, mostly because Miss Doctor Doolittle would somehow have known, thanks to those strange intuitive powers that woman have.  I picked up Petrie and took him into the house and delivered him into my wife’s hands so she could continue to try and heal the little bird.  After a few more weeks of the intense care that a wounded animal takes, we again gathered on the balcony to release Petrie into the wild.  Petrie had other ideas though.  As my wife held him aloft to release him, Petrie turned and jumped on her. He had experienced the wild and had experienced life in the care of my wife.  It was no contest. Petrie had become a permanent member of the household. 

This experience pretty much sums up the story behind every animal we have ever had.  Horses, donkeys, cats, dogs, fish, frogs, rabbits, and chickens.  The chickens are the most frightening creatures, of course.  They are not of this world.  I built a huge chicken coop for my wife when she decided she wanted these feathery fiends as pets.  I did not know what I was doing.  Chickens are miniature velociraptors that use colorful feathers to disguise their true identity. They will eat anything—living or dead.  In that regard, they are better than having pigs.  Woe be, however, to the man who walks too slowly through the chicken yard.  I stay away from them as they have been known to jump on your head—presumably to peck your eyes out on their way to eat your brain.  One time, my wife left me in charge of the animals while she went to visit family.  She told me that to get the chickens back in the coop, I had to take a bag of mealworms into the coop, and they would follow me in.  Once they were safely in the coop, I was to scatter some worms on the ground and then leave and shut the door.  Sounded simple enough.  I tried it, but instead of calmly following me, the chickens instantly launched themselves at me like feathery missiles of death.  I was suddenly in the center of a squawking and screeching feather, beak, and talon cyclone.  I threw the bag into the coop, slammed the door, and ran for my life.  Fortunately, the mealworms were more appetizing to the winged demons of hell than I was, so my escape was successful. 

 The good news is that I benefit from my wife’s love of animals too.  From her perspective, I’m just one more wounded animal that needs care.  As long as I understand where I am in the pecking order, I’m good.