Pregnancy and Critters Gone Wild

I followed a bread crumb trail provided by George C. on over to Mike F's  gathering place to read how his friend Tony mixed owl rescue, talons and beer for a series of unfortunate events.

I take offense to just about everything Mike F. had to say about his friend Tony. Even down to the credit he gave Tony for losing his hearing for a week. We are stuck with relatives, we choose our friends.

While reading about Tony I decided we may have been separated at birth - by a wise physician who decided that no one geographical region of the United States could stay afloat with both of us in residence. 

 I seem to remember at age ten  that my cousins and I suffered a bout of 24 hour  deafness after a trip to the barn to scare the chickens with firecrackers. We covered with our folks by pretending to fall asleep early - while the entire night we lay in our beds worried we would never hear again. 

While Tony went on to torment the likes of Mike F. I set my goals a little bit higher and closer to home, which at the time was Tiverton R.I.  

Like most of my animal tales, this one also started in a car. (Without the influence of beer - sorry Tony!)  I was ten months pregnant and nesting. Ohhhh nesting, nesting, nesting.

The guy in front of me on the highway clipped and stunned a seagull.  It lay on the pavement 20 feet ahead of me. Flopping his wings, not getting anywhere. What to do? Not really a question.

The mother instinct took over, I stopped. Got out of my car, threw my Jones NY hounds-tooth over the injured bird, scooped him up and waddled back to my car. 

I opened the trunk, pulled out a plastic milk crate, put the seagull in it; Then I put both the milk crate with the seagull tucked carefully inside it in the passenger seat and buckled them up.

What in the blazes I thought I was going to do with this near turkey sized Seagull - - I don't know.

For sure, the end results involved sitting on our deck overlooking Stafford Pond drinking margaritas, with our very own personal rescue seagull to keep us company - and maybe even donating the occasional fish to the evening meal.

I continued my drive back towards Tiverton, RI glancing sideways at the bird now riding shotgun beside me. Being a sociable host, I talked to him non stop the entire way home and gave him a name. Scully.

 I picked up the edge of my Jones NY blazer until I saw his sweet little left eye eyeballing me. Scully it was.

No foul, no harm.  I stuck my right hand over and petted him on the head. Scully seemed to enjoy it. He clucked at me, rolled his neck and seemed to appreciate the lift. It was settled. He was mine.

(This reminds me of how I got married the second time as well now that I think about it...)

I decided I'd love him. Keep him. Take him home. Feed him. The usual. I was having a really hard time in the creative thinking department trying to figure out how to get him home and into the house without admitting to picking him up injured off of a bridge and driving him 50 miles to the house.

So, I used the rest of the drive home to plot and plan.  I mulled over windshield stories. A story about how at McDonalds I'd opened my car door and  there he was.  

I've learned that the fewer details I disclose about my adventures,  the less suspicion is cast in my direction. 

With the original story being so good, it was hard to find passable fiction that would allow me to keep the bird without being guilty of actual rescue.

Years of  getting nailed in cross examination encouraged me to decide on the 'keep quiet' story. Upon arriving home, I'd put him Scully the Seagull on the front deck, sneak around to the back door and go inside.

Then I scripted how while casually walking around the front windows I'd 'just happen to notice this poor little injured fella outside in need of my help.' 

 Yes, that was definitely the way to get me off the hook for dragging him home.

It was workable - - After all we lived on the water. A perfect place for an injured seagull to happen upon our home. It was settled in my mind - - I'd have no problem pulling off adding a Seagull to our menagerie on the waterfront. We were good to go.

First, though - to the Vet's office.  About ten miles from the house I stopped at a clinic. I Waddled in with my baby load with my milk crate box with Scully the seagull tucked safely inside. 

I'd chittered and chattered with the bird to the point that I was completely assured he was a good boy. So, when the vet came into the room and saw me snuggling Scully on my lap he immediately assumed he could do the same thing.

He reached over to pet Scully. Scully did what any normal bird would do to any normal human. He bit the smithereens out of the vet's finger and drew blood.

This was interesting. I scolded Scully and continued petting him on the head while apologizing to the vet. The vet asked,

"'So, how long have you had your bird?" 

Not wanting to look like a complete idiot I fabricated another less than innocent answer into my evening:

"Oh for a while now. He's not doing too well today, I think he got clipped by a car. Can you take a look at him?"

"Is he going to bite me again?"

"No, I don't think so. Scully, you'll be nice from now on won't you?"

Scully looked at me sideways and clucked and twittered.

Smiling, I handed him off to the vet and told him Scully had promised to not bite him again.

The vet left the exam room with Scully tucked neatly under his arm headed for X-Ray chattering and petting the bird on the head non stop. 

 About five minutes later I hear a huge scream followed by un nice words being directed at Scully.  I smiled. The vet must have let someone else do the X-Ray.

Scully was a one promise kind of Guy it seems.

Ten minutes later, the vet came back.

"He bite your  assistant?"

"Yeah, then I told him to be good. He laughed. "Some bird you got there, but I've got some bad news. He's got a fractured vertebrae in his spine, there's no way to fix it."

"Oh," I said while the inside of my nose prickled.

We quietly agreed on a plan while Scully  sat wrapped in a towel on my lap looking up at me with one eye and his head cocked sideways.

While I stroked the top of Scully's head and told him I was sorry, the vet slipped a needle into Scully's back.  Instantly, Scully's head dropped pitifully to one side. I left him with the Vet to be cremated.

I cried all the way home and decided that  while a little fishing tale may have been required to have kept Scully as a semi pet?

That the absolute truth about Scully's Adventures and how I came to have a Seagull in my front seat would be good enough to explain the vet bill when it came.