I've been known as the person to come to for bird questions for many years now. Over those years I've gotten some very interesting questions from friends and family. Usually they involve my identifying a species based on a vague description. I do my best with these and usually if they give me a behavior or general location I can guess at what they may have seen. Of course, I do get those who are certain they've seen a Snowy Owl or something that would truly be a wonder to see in that particular area and have had to gently let them down with the possibility that it was merely a common Barn Owl. Vagrants do occur, but most people don't even notice and can't identify the resident Red-tailed hawks or house finches, so I tend to doubt these wild identifications of the truly spectacular.
Another thing that comes with being the "bird lady" are those random questions that plague you after watching a tv show or in the middle of the night when your mind wanders to unusual places. One of the most recent to be posed to me was "do birds fart?" I had to stop and think about this one, even had to reference a college textbook. While I have not yet done my doctoral thesis on the topic, I have some ideas on this subject. According to Kirk Klasing's book "Conparitive Avian Nutrition" (2000), "most birds use their capacity of flight to harvest foods that are easiest to digest with simple digestive systems." Flatulence tends to come from the breakdown of complex foods such as tough grasses and materials high in cell walls as a result of the gut's fermentation process. There are a few species of birds which feed upon these high-roughage materials, but the requirements for processing these foods create a problem when balancing weight for the demands of flight. (A good argument against cows achieving flight.) Since birds have highly-efficient ways of garnering every bit of nutrition from the foods they consume, it is unlikely that there would be excess gasses. Anecdotally, I have often observed my hawk lifting his tail feathers as if to slice and nothing is produced. My theory with this is that his gut is empty and even though he feels he must slice, there is not enough material in his rectum to produce any mutes. While Dr. Klasing never directly addresses the subject, I believe he would concur with my theory that birds do not fart, though some gasses from the fermentation process of those birds which feed upon roughage may be excreted along with the urine and feces.
Another question I am often asked at events with my hawk is "does it talk?" This question never fails to make the falconers smirk or stifle a giggle. You see, we know what our birds are saying to us, or at least we like to think we do, based on behaviors, body posture and some vocalizations. However, these birds lack the physiological capability to reproduce human sounds. Birds have a syrinx, where humans have a larynx or voice box. The syrinx is more complex in birds which rely on song for mating or call mimicking for survival. Birds such as those in the mimidae family (mockingbirds and mynahs) mimic calls they hear in order to attract mates or confuse their neighbors. Parrots mimic calls so as better to fit into their flock, as each flock has a specific "language". If a lone bird wants to join a neighboring flock, he had better learn to speak their tongue. These birds, when kept in close proximity to humans, also learn our language. They may not always understand what we mean when we say "Polly want a cracker", but they understand that when they say this, they will get a reward and so positive reinforcement is achieved. Hawks, falcons and owls have more limited vocalizations. These birds are generally solitary, only encountering a mate or chick or rival on occasion and so only need a limited number of "words". The exception might be the Harris' Hawks. As social raptors, they need to be able to communicate effectively with their flock in order to coordinate hunts and determine the pecking order. I have observed several vocalizations from my Harris' Hawk including those that seem to mean "I am happy and feel safe", "Warning! There is something large and predatory!", and "get the heck out of my space". So, in this way I suppose TK does talk to me, but I had to learn his language, he would never lower himself to speak Human.
In closing, I am glad that my friends and family come to me with their odd bird questions. It makes me feel like all this random knowledge that I so lovingly and tirelessly collected is being put to some use. And until I find a job which is willing to pay me to be a bird geek, I must satisfy myself with answering the questions put to me by those who know me as "the bird girl". If you have any random bird questions, I would love to see them in the comments. Perhaps I will even write about it in a future blog!
Monday, July 19, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
TK's 2nd Hatchday
In honor of my hunting partner's second hatchday (birthday), I thought I would dedicate this week's posting to him. My Harris' Hawk, "TK" has brought nothing but excitement and pride to my life since the first day I saw him. My first hawk as a general falconer, he has taught me just as much as I have taught him, possibly more.
When I first saw him, TK was a frightened, 4-month old hawk. He looked much as he does now, except with his first year colors, mottled brown and white with a striped tail. I was one of the first humans he had set eyes on since being grabbed out of the chamber he shared with his parents and siblings. His other siblings were long since sold and delivered to their falconers, just this small male remained. I had just gone through a rather trying year, my final one as an apprentice. I had lost one bird and had one die in my hands. I also had another bird that was not doing well and before the year was out I would lose her too. I seriously considered giving up on falconry. I thought, "I am a bad falconer. I can't train my birds to stay with me, I can't cure the ones that fall ill in my care. I must not be meant to do this." They were heartbreaking thoughts as I had spent my life up to this point with the knowledge that I would be a falconer and I would devote my life to these birds that I so admired. After consulting with some other falconers that I had come to know well over the course of my apprenticeship, they convinced me that it was not my fault and that these things sometimes happen (albeit not usually within the same year). These wonderful friends had seen my other hawk and my relationship with her and were convinced that I was a good falconer who had had a run of bad luck. Through their faith and persistence I decided to soldier on and that night, the night I got my Harris' Hawk, I decided to break out my trapping equipment. You see, I didn't know that night that I would be getting a captive-bred bird. I was preparing to go out and trap another Red-tailed hawk, a bird I had come to know well over the course of my apprenticeship. With the equipment laid out on the dining room table, I prepared to re-noose my BC, a daunting and tedious task for even the most seasoned falconer. Before I had even sat down, my phone rang. The friend on the other line was Morgan. You might say he was my co-sponsor as he taught me just as much during my apprenticeship as my sponsor, Richard. The two are inseparable, like brothers or twins. There is a running joke in the group that they have been married to each other longer than they have been married to their wives. Morgan was one of those friends who helped me make the decision to stay with falconry and here he was with a proposal. They were at another falconer's house for a meeting, a falconer who happened to be a breeder of Harris' Hawks. They had one last male to get rid of and were willing to let him go for a steal of a price. I thought about the offer. Could I do this? After all I had just experienced, was I ready to take on a chamber-raised Harris'? We talked about the price and I mentioned the need to check my finances. Morgan offered to call me back, but in that time I had checked my balance online (thank you technology!) and said that I would take the hawk. In that instant I knew my falconry career was about to change for the better.
Before Morgan and Richard arrived with my new hawk, there was someone else who needed to know about this new addition. We had only been dating a couple of months, but I called Christopher and told him he was going to meet the new man in my life when he arrived that evening. Of course, knowing me as he did even then, he knew it was a hawk. I remember Morgan and Richard opening the box that held my new hawk. I held the leash and jesses tightly and on my fist this bird acted like a milder version of a freshly-trapped passage Red-tail. Wings and tail spread in defense and beak open, bating away from me at every chance. It took him an hour or so to calm down and sit on the glove, but when he did, the bond forming between us was tangible. I knew at that moment that I would do anything for this bird, would do everything in my power to ensure his success. It must be similar to what a parent feels holding their newborn child. Of course, most children don't go out on their own in the first few months of life and subdue and kill a wild jackrabbit, but you get my point.
Training went as well as could be expected, with more failures than successes at first. That first year, we took 4 jackrabbits. The first one happened on a soggy Valentine's Day morning. I had left Christopher asleep in bed, I could have done the same but I was determined to get my bird out as often as possible. We had plans for that evening, but the morning was all mine. We had just had some rain and my favorite field was slowly becoming flooded, but I figured I had one more shot at the soggiest corner before the season claimed it. We weren't in the field more than a half hour when I saw movement and TK left my glove with a burst of determined speed. Small, too small for a full-grown jack and I hadn't seen cottontail in this field before. I prayed it wasn't a cat and the noise that followed a heartbeat later confirmed what I had hoped. His first rabbit. I leaped and ran as fast as I could over the uneven ground, around hillocks and fallen logs and to hell with a broken ankle, my bird had game! I got to him and in his talons was a very young jackrabbit. No more than a couple of months old. Old enough to be out and about on his own, but not old enough to know how to outmaneuver a hawk. I knelt down and helped TK dispatch it, a quick, painless death to honor the prey. If we do not respect the game, we lose part of what it means to be a falconer. Like any proud parent, I took a picture with my phone and called my friends and family. It's funny how the people in your life come to share these strange triumphs with you. We celebrate a hawk's first kill like a baby's first tooth and thankfully, my family appreciates these accomplishments.
I won't say that each kill has been easy after that first one. Where would the sport be if that were the case? TK fights for each and every success and we appreciate them together. Hunting with him is always a joy, never a chore. He follows me in the field and is always learning new ways to surprise me, be it a stylish wingover or learning that if he sits in a tree he can see much farther than from my T-perch. He has even started trying to catch pheasant, which he got a feel for after watching two other Harris' take a female pheasant in some tumbleweeds. The only one he caught, he had by the tail feathers. He lost that bird, but still seems determined to catch one one day. Who knows, he may even try for a duck in the potential 30+ years he will live. This little Harris' Hawk is the light of my life and as much my teacher as I am his. You can be sure there will be more stories to tell about this hawk, but for now, Happy Hatchday my fantastic hunting partner!
When I first saw him, TK was a frightened, 4-month old hawk. He looked much as he does now, except with his first year colors, mottled brown and white with a striped tail. I was one of the first humans he had set eyes on since being grabbed out of the chamber he shared with his parents and siblings. His other siblings were long since sold and delivered to their falconers, just this small male remained. I had just gone through a rather trying year, my final one as an apprentice. I had lost one bird and had one die in my hands. I also had another bird that was not doing well and before the year was out I would lose her too. I seriously considered giving up on falconry. I thought, "I am a bad falconer. I can't train my birds to stay with me, I can't cure the ones that fall ill in my care. I must not be meant to do this." They were heartbreaking thoughts as I had spent my life up to this point with the knowledge that I would be a falconer and I would devote my life to these birds that I so admired. After consulting with some other falconers that I had come to know well over the course of my apprenticeship, they convinced me that it was not my fault and that these things sometimes happen (albeit not usually within the same year). These wonderful friends had seen my other hawk and my relationship with her and were convinced that I was a good falconer who had had a run of bad luck. Through their faith and persistence I decided to soldier on and that night, the night I got my Harris' Hawk, I decided to break out my trapping equipment. You see, I didn't know that night that I would be getting a captive-bred bird. I was preparing to go out and trap another Red-tailed hawk, a bird I had come to know well over the course of my apprenticeship. With the equipment laid out on the dining room table, I prepared to re-noose my BC, a daunting and tedious task for even the most seasoned falconer. Before I had even sat down, my phone rang. The friend on the other line was Morgan. You might say he was my co-sponsor as he taught me just as much during my apprenticeship as my sponsor, Richard. The two are inseparable, like brothers or twins. There is a running joke in the group that they have been married to each other longer than they have been married to their wives. Morgan was one of those friends who helped me make the decision to stay with falconry and here he was with a proposal. They were at another falconer's house for a meeting, a falconer who happened to be a breeder of Harris' Hawks. They had one last male to get rid of and were willing to let him go for a steal of a price. I thought about the offer. Could I do this? After all I had just experienced, was I ready to take on a chamber-raised Harris'? We talked about the price and I mentioned the need to check my finances. Morgan offered to call me back, but in that time I had checked my balance online (thank you technology!) and said that I would take the hawk. In that instant I knew my falconry career was about to change for the better.
Before Morgan and Richard arrived with my new hawk, there was someone else who needed to know about this new addition. We had only been dating a couple of months, but I called Christopher and told him he was going to meet the new man in my life when he arrived that evening. Of course, knowing me as he did even then, he knew it was a hawk. I remember Morgan and Richard opening the box that held my new hawk. I held the leash and jesses tightly and on my fist this bird acted like a milder version of a freshly-trapped passage Red-tail. Wings and tail spread in defense and beak open, bating away from me at every chance. It took him an hour or so to calm down and sit on the glove, but when he did, the bond forming between us was tangible. I knew at that moment that I would do anything for this bird, would do everything in my power to ensure his success. It must be similar to what a parent feels holding their newborn child. Of course, most children don't go out on their own in the first few months of life and subdue and kill a wild jackrabbit, but you get my point.
Training went as well as could be expected, with more failures than successes at first. That first year, we took 4 jackrabbits. The first one happened on a soggy Valentine's Day morning. I had left Christopher asleep in bed, I could have done the same but I was determined to get my bird out as often as possible. We had plans for that evening, but the morning was all mine. We had just had some rain and my favorite field was slowly becoming flooded, but I figured I had one more shot at the soggiest corner before the season claimed it. We weren't in the field more than a half hour when I saw movement and TK left my glove with a burst of determined speed. Small, too small for a full-grown jack and I hadn't seen cottontail in this field before. I prayed it wasn't a cat and the noise that followed a heartbeat later confirmed what I had hoped. His first rabbit. I leaped and ran as fast as I could over the uneven ground, around hillocks and fallen logs and to hell with a broken ankle, my bird had game! I got to him and in his talons was a very young jackrabbit. No more than a couple of months old. Old enough to be out and about on his own, but not old enough to know how to outmaneuver a hawk. I knelt down and helped TK dispatch it, a quick, painless death to honor the prey. If we do not respect the game, we lose part of what it means to be a falconer. Like any proud parent, I took a picture with my phone and called my friends and family. It's funny how the people in your life come to share these strange triumphs with you. We celebrate a hawk's first kill like a baby's first tooth and thankfully, my family appreciates these accomplishments.
I won't say that each kill has been easy after that first one. Where would the sport be if that were the case? TK fights for each and every success and we appreciate them together. Hunting with him is always a joy, never a chore. He follows me in the field and is always learning new ways to surprise me, be it a stylish wingover or learning that if he sits in a tree he can see much farther than from my T-perch. He has even started trying to catch pheasant, which he got a feel for after watching two other Harris' take a female pheasant in some tumbleweeds. The only one he caught, he had by the tail feathers. He lost that bird, but still seems determined to catch one one day. Who knows, he may even try for a duck in the potential 30+ years he will live. This little Harris' Hawk is the light of my life and as much my teacher as I am his. You can be sure there will be more stories to tell about this hawk, but for now, Happy Hatchday my fantastic hunting partner!
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