Karma's a Killer

by Tracy Weber

  I took the phone out of her hand and placed it firmly back on the receiver. “Absolutely not.” If Alicia’s maintenance manager got his hands on the bird, things wouldn’t end well for Mister Feathers.

  “Well, we can’t leave him there. The Kids’ Yoga class starts in an hour. We can’t let a bunch of five-year-olds find a hurt bird—or worse, a dead bird—on our doorstep. What if one of them touches it?”

  Ugh.

  Part of me wanted to give in and let the instructor call the maintenance manager. Part of me wanted to ignore the issue and hope that it would somehow magically resolve on its own. Part of me wanted to find a stray alley cat, release it in the stairwell, and let nature take its course. After all, the animal was “just” a pigeon, and one I’d been trying to get rid of at that.

  But I couldn’t.

  I had witnessed way too much death in the past year. I couldn’t stand another. Not today. Not on my watch.

  “I’ll go take a look. He’s probably already gone.”

  I slipped off my shoes and walked through the yoga room, praying that the bird had miraculously recovered. When I cracked open the back door, the gunmetal gray pigeon that had happily roosted above my entrance two days before huddled, looking helpless, on the ground next to the stairs. I quietly closed the door and went back to the desk.

  Chai took one look at my face and said, “We have to do something, Kate. He might be suffering.”

  She was right, of course. Fortunately, I had an idea.

  “Go keep an eye on him and make sure no one disturbs him. If maintenance comes, tell them I’m handling it.”

  Having delegated responsibility for the injured animal squarely onto my shoulders, the students all happily filtered out the front door.

  I rummaged around in my purse until I found the flyer that Judith from Precious Life Wildlife Center had given me on Saturday, then picked up the phone and called the number. Judith briskly talked me through a few bird-catching pointers.

  “It sounds like he can’t fly. If you approach him slowly, he’ll likely stay put. Lay a blanket or towel over him to keep him calm, place him in a dark, covered box with plenty of air holes, and bring him to me. I’ll help him if I can.” She gave me a single warning. “Whatever you do, don’t chase him.” She recited the address for her center and promised to be ready for Mister Feathers when I arrived.

  I armed myself with the essentials and did a pre-fight-or-flight check.

  Closable cardboard box with air holes punched along the side. Check.

  Towels to line said box and place over injured bird. Check.

  Goggles and leather gloves in case injured bird is diseased or decides to attack his would-be rescuer. Hmm … that was a problem. Sunglasses and rubber dishwashing gloves would have to do. Check.

  I slipped my shoes back on, cracked open the door, and quietly eased outside.

  Chai didn’t look hopeful. “He hasn’t moved since you left. Do you need help getting him in the box?”

  “No. Go ahead and stay at the front desk. I can handle this.”

  Famous last words.

  Of stupid people.

  The small, frail-looking bird still huddled in the corner, feathers ruffled, head down. He looked up warily at my approach.

  “Easy there, guy. No one’s going to hurt you.”

  I set the box on the ground, secured my sunglasses, snapped a yellow glove onto each hand, and unfolded the towel. I slowly edged up to the bird and lowered my body into a Full Squat about a foot away from him. I spoke in a low, soft yoga voice.

  “Hey there, beautiful. Nice and easy now … ”

  I leaned forward, shifted my weight to the balls of my feet, and reached out my arms to drop the towel safely over the bird.

  Mister Feathers exploded.

  He flapped; he squawked; he jumped; he ran. He spewed feathers in every direction. I let out a loud shriek, instinctively covered my face, and jerked backward, falling squarely on my sitz bones in the day’s pile of wet bird droppings.

  Well, didn’t this give Pigeon Pose a whole new meaning?

  I let loose a stream of invectives that should never be uttered within a thousand yards of a yoga studio, ineffectually dabbed at my rear with the towel, and reassessed my options.

  Judith’s warning taunted me: Whatever you do, don’t chase him.

  Did she have a better idea?

  I chased that damned bird around the underground parking lot three times, cursing myself for not insisting that the others help me. I dodged between cars; I crawled underneath them. I begged. I pleaded. I muttered at least twelve dozen pigeon-related expletives.

  After fifteen minutes of feathered hide-and-seek, I cornered the animal—literally—between the electrical room and the far end of the garage. Mister Feathers either gave up or was too exhausted to continue the chase, because this time he allowed me to gently lay the towel on top of him. I scooped him up, placed him in the box, secured the lid, and victoriously set it on the passenger seat of my car.

  I marched back into the studio to call Judith and let her know we were on our way. Chai gaped at me from behind the desk.

  “Kate, your pants. Is that … ?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  She tried, unsuccessfully, not to snicker.

  I locked myself in the bathroom and cleaned up as best I could. I didn’t know how long I’d be wrapped up in the pigeon fiasco, so I wrote a note for the Kids’ Yoga teacher telling her I’d be out that afternoon and then left a message on Michael’s cell phone asking him to pick up Bella and give me a rain check for dinner. Within five minutes of setting the pigeon-containing box in my Honda, I’d pulled out of the parking garage and headed south to Renton and the animal sanctuary.

  Now that I had a moment to find some perspective, I had to admit that the situation could have been worse. Bella could have been in the car with me. She would have taken about twenty-five seconds to devour the entire passenger-seat box and its contents. Then I would have had a dead bird on my conscience. Even worse, I would have needed to guess how much medicine a hundred-pound German shepherd with EPI needed to digest a raw pigeon.

  I turned off the radio so the DJ’s voice wouldn’t frighten the already-

  traumatized animal. It was awfully quiet in that box. No bumps, no scratches, no coos—nothing. I lightly placed my hand on the box’s lid, hoping to sense movement. More nothing.

  Please don’t let him be dead, I silently prayed.

  Thirty long, silent minutes later, I turned right on a gravel road and passed a peeling sign that read Precious Life Wildlife Center. A few seconds after that, I pulled up next to an old, beat-up station wagon, turned off the ignition, and frowned.

  Could this really be it?

  I don’t know what I was expecting. A sanitized-looking cement building with a neon-lit emergency entrance? A zoo-like fenced pasture filled with happily grazing deer? Maybe a farm, complete with several outbuildings, each providing sanctuary for a specific kind of creature?

  I certainly hadn’t expected a small, poorly maintained, single-story house. A handwritten sign was taped near the open garage door: Bring animals in through the garage. Do not knock before entering.

  Call me crazy, but this place looked less like an animal hospital and more like somebody’s home. And a pretty darned dumpy home at that. I glanced left and right as I walked through the dusty garage. It was crowded, not with cars, but with an assortment of dog crates, dirty and clean towels, large sacks of animal food, and clear plastic bags filled with wooden shavings. I lifted my hand to knock on the door, but remembered the sign and stopped. I slowly pushed it open instead.

  The room on the other side had likely once been a large family room. Now it was an animal holding facility. A waist-high metal exam table was set up to the right. Cages filled with owls, blue jays, pigeons, crows—even a chicken�
�were stacked on shelves lining one side of the room. The other side held dog crates containing a raccoon, three rabbits, a possum, and several bald-tailed rats. The animals watched from their cages with bright, interested eyes.

  I glanced through a baby-gate-blocked doorway near the exam table. It led to a kitchen and an open living room, complete with couch, end tables, television set, and a worn leather recliner. I strongly suspected that the rehab center and Judith’s home were one and the same. Talk about taking your work home with you.

  “Hello, is anyone here?” I whispered the words into the empty space so as not to disturb the animals.

  Judith appeared, opened the baby gate, and walked through, drying her hands on a dish towel. She reached toward me, palms up. “I’m ready. Where’s the bird?”

  “I left him out in the car.” I swallowed. “Umm … he hasn’t moved in a while. I think he might be dead.”

  She frowned. “It’s possible, depending on how badly he was hurt. But they often settle down in the dark. Get him in here and let me take a look at him.”

  I removed the box from the passenger seat and reverently carried it into the house. Judith set it on a desk near the door, opened it, and pulled out a limp-looking pigeon. She cradled the bird in her arms, softly stroked the tiny feathers along the back of his neck, and murmured a lullaby. The bird turned toward her voice.

  “He’s alive, but he’s scared as tarnation. What’d you do, chase him?”

  I exercised my right to remain silent.

  Judith tsk tskd and whispered under her breath, “Why don’t these fools ever listen to me?” She carried Mister Feathers to the exam table. “Let’s see what we’ve got going on here. I’ll need you to help me.”

  After she laid a clean towel on the stainless steel table, she placed the bird on top of it and examined him with brisk yet gentle fingers. I couldn’t explain it, but the pigeon seemed to relax underneath the spell of her whispered assurances. “It’s okay, baby,” she said. “Mommy will take care of you.”

  She leaned over the table, brought her face close to the bird, and gently palpated his wings. “Neither of his wings are broken. That’s good.” She checked the feathers along his neck and back. Then she deftly flipped him onto his back and continued her gentle but thorough inspection. After several minutes, she stood up straight, looked at me, and shrugged.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t find any injuries.”

  I smiled, feeling unaccountably relieved. “You mean he’s okay?”

  Her gaze met mine, unflinching. “I don’t think so.”

  Tears threatened my eyes. I reached forward and touched Judith’s wrist, taking care not to startle the bird. “Please. Don’t give up. Keep looking.”

  Judith began her head-to-tail-feathers examination again. After what felt like three pigeons’ lifetimes, she gestured to me. “Hand me that bottle of rubbing alcohol.” She wet a cotton ball and used it to part the feathers on his chest. “Ah, here it is, hidden. I almost missed it.” She pointed to an angry-looking red puncture on his breast. “Looks like a hawk got him. See that bruising? The bleeding was internal, into his chest cavity. That’s why he can’t fly, and that’s why the wound was so hard to find. He’s lucky he got away.”

  She gestured for me to come to her side of the table. “Hold him for a minute and don’t let him move. Be firm now, but gentle.” The bird’s heart beat rapidly under my hands, but he seemed significantly calmer than he had been in the parking garage.

  “He doesn’t seem frightened. Is he in shock?”

  Judith looked at me, deadpan. “Nope. He knows I’m trying to help. I’m not acting like some crazy fool chasing him all over the countryside.”

  I would have assured her that the bird’s and my game of hide-and-seek had taken place in an enclosed parking garage, not the countryside, but somehow I didn’t think it would win me any brownie points.

  Judith rifled through a stack of medications and pulled out two bottles and a syringe.

  “What’s that?”

  “Antibiotics and pain medication. This poor little thing will need both. You did the right thing bringing him here.”

  I hated to ask, but I needed to know. “Do you think he’ll make it?”

  “That’s up to him and God.”

  “Does he stand a chance?”

  “Of course he does. I’ve saved birds so mangled that their wings were barely attached. It all depends on whether he makes it through the next couple of days. When my husband gets home tonight and can help, we’ll put him under anesthesia, give him some fluids, and clean out the wound. We might put in a couple of stitches. If I were a betting woman, I’d say he’ll be all healed up and ready for you to take home before you know it.”

  “Home? You mean you expect him to live with me?”

  “No, of course not. He’s a wild bird. But you should release him back where you found him.”

  I visualized the never-ending supply of bird droppings outside my back door. I hoped Mister Feathers would forgive me if I chose a nice, shady spot in Greenwood Park instead.

  Judith put him into a small cage underneath a heat lamp.

  “Time to leave him be now. He needs to rest. Come with me and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  I hated to leave the pigeon, but I suspected she was right. The best thing I could do for him now was to leave him alone. I followed Judith toward the kitchen.

  “Do you take cream or—”

  A loud squawk interrupted her sentence.

  “Oh no you don’t!” she yelled. She moved faster and with greater agility than I would have thought possible for a woman of her age and apparent condition. She dove in front of me and snatched a red-tailed hawk off the edge of a rabbit pen.

  “That’s it, Mr. Hawking. No more freedom for you. If you’re feeling good enough to hunt, you need to hang out in your cage.”

  She carried the bird like a feathered football to the other side of the room and secured him inside a large dog crate. “Looks like this one will be ready for release any time now.” She patted the top of the crate. “Until then, it’s cage time for you, mister. I’ve got enough trouble without my patients hunting each other.” She continued walking toward the kitchen. Come on now, let’s get that coffee.”

  I followed her through the baby gate and into the kitchen. She pulled two chipped cups off a dish drying rack, filled them with what smelled like coffee-flavored battery acid, and handed one to me. I stared at it uneasily, wondering which would be more hazardous to my health: drinking the foul-looking brew or insulting Judith by abstaining.

  Judith’s eyes flashed with humor. “Cheers.” She took a big swig from her cup.

  I took a sip from mine and suppressed a gag.

  It tasted worse than it smelled. So bad, in fact, that I would have sworn that my hair follicles shuddered. I ignored the annoying sensation the first time, even the second. By the third, I realized the tickling I felt wasn’t caused by the coffee. I reached up to brush what I assumed was an errant feather off my scalp.

  My hand collided with something.

  Something large.

  Something large with a sharp, pointed beak.

  “Holy crap!”

  I whipped toward the cabinet behind me and came face to face with a monster with the biggest, roundest eyes I’d ever seen.

  I screamed.

  The monster screamed back.

  Judith doubled over and laughed so hard I thought she might wet herself. “Oh my golly, I’m sorry.”

  Funny, she didn’t look sorry. In fact, she looked positively giddy.

  She wiped the tears from her eyes. “I know I shouldn’t laugh, but it’s so darned funny. He loves to hide up there and surprise visitors. I should have warned you, but I hate to ruin his fun.” She bowed and chivalrously swept her arm toward the pterodactyl-sized bird. “Kate, meet Spook. H
e’s my resident barred owl.”

  I had a feeling I knew how the bird got his name.

  Spook continued to stare, unblinking. He walked to the edge of the cabinet top, bobbed his head toward Judith, and made a hooting noise.

  Judith shook her finger. “Not now. You’ve already had your lunch.” She smiled at me. “Go ahead, you can pet him.”

  I hesitantly reached out my hand and touched Spook’s soft feathers. “You let him wander around loose in here?”

  “Why not? It’s his home.”

  I looked across the room, toward the windows. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll fly away?”

  She shrugged. “He can’t. When he came to me a few years ago, his wing was so mangled that it couldn’t be saved. I had to amputate.” She pointed across the room. “Same with his buddy over there, only he’s a couple of years older.” I followed her fingers. A second owl, bigger than the first, perched on the back of the recliner. “These two can’t fly, so they’d never survive in the wild. They live here with me.”

  “They’re happy as house pets?”

  Judith waved toward the birds. “What do you think?”

  They certainly seemed happy to me.

  “But I have to correct you. These fellows are not house pets. They are wild birds living in captivity for educational purposes.” She made finger quotes around the final two words. “Like I told you before, when it comes to the law, verbiage is important. I take those owls to visit grade schools at least twice a year. I even donate their owl pellets.” She pointed to a glass jar filled with what looked like small, foil-wrapped baked potatoes.

  I picked one up and examined it curiously. “Owl pellets? What are they? Eggs?”

  “They’re a digestive byproduct.” I gave her a blank look. “They’re basically the parts of prey that an owl can’t digest. Science classes use them for dissection. It teaches kids about the cycle of life.”