Day #513 Poe, a Vermont Raven

Years ago my family spent our summers at a little cottage (which Vermonters call a “camp”) on Lake Iroquois.

One day a raven showed up on our deck, walked around, nodded at us, and flew off. He became a regular visitor. We called him Poe. The neighbors down the road－a lovely gravel road overhung with interlacing tree branches－called him “The Judge.” Other folks along the road－he visited ALL of us－had different names for him. But he seemed to spend more time with us than with them. Maybe it was because of the cactus on our deck that he liked to peck at.

We read the numbers off the band on one of his legs, called the University of Vermont, and were referred to Dr. Bernd Heinrich, whose studies of communication in ravens was world famous (among raven-folks, that is). He told us that he was studying the homing instincts of the ravens, wanting to know if they would keep his yard as their home territory, or if they would fly off and never return. “Just let him be,” he advised.

At any rate, one day Poe showed up with his legs horribly tangled in fishing line. He could fly, but because his legs were bound together, he couldn’t walk, and his hopping was impeded because his balance was off. If I’ve ever seen a cry for help, Poe was giving one. I called Dr. Heinrich immediately, and he said he’d be there as quickly as he could drive the back roads.

When he arrived and walked down our gravel path toward the camp, Poe began ducking his head and spreading his wings. Dr. H mimicked the action, and the two of them carried on what looked like a conversation of ducks and bows and wing(arm) flapping.

I handed Dr. H a big bath towel. He wrapped Poe in it, and I was astonished that Poe immediately settled down. “When he can’t move his wings,” Dr. H told us, “he just relaxes.” I think it also helped that Poe knew who was holding him.

I brought out my nail scissors and, while Dr. H held Poe, I snipped the fishing line. The skin around the multiple tangles of line was horribly swollen, so each individual length of plastic wrapped around his leg had to be cut separately, working down through the layers of line.

As I worked, Dr. Heinrich explained that ravens frequently get caught in cast-off fishing line when they grab up fish that were once hooked and somehow broke the line, trailing it through the water after them as they swim. Ravens use their feet to manipulate a fish as they eat it, so when a raven catches a fish that has fishing line attached to it, the raven can easily get the line wound around first one foot, and then as it tries to disentangle itself, around the second foot as well. 

It wasn’t a simple operation. It took me about 20 minutes to get it all off, although it seemed like hours. I was drenched in sweat by the time I finished.

Dr. H checked Poe carefully and announced that once the swelling  was gone, Poe would most likely be fine. “A few more days, though,” he said, “and Poe wouldn’t have made it.” He took Poe home with him for recuperation.

Last night, my son and I drove to Georgia Tech to hear Dr. Heinrich speak about his research “From the Bees to the Birds: Animal Communication.” He changed the title on us, though, and said he rather talk about bees and moths.

I took copious notes, and I’ll be sharing some of what he said over the next few days.

And, by the way, before the lecture, my son and I had a chance to speak with Dr. H. We mentioned Poe and the fishing line, but he didn't remember it at all. What was the adventure of a lifetime for us was just all in a day's work for him. 

BEEattitude for Day #513:

       Blessed are those who question “why,” for they shall be surprised by some of the answers.

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The teeny details:

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Day #385 Polly the Alarm Cat

I’ve had people ask me why I believe that people can hear animals’ speech and that animals can understand what people are saying.

Here’s the story.

A number of years ago, at a time when I had ten or eleven indoor rescued cats living in my house, one of them started peeing in a highly inappropriate place, in the living room. After two days of this, I was fed up. I couldn’t catch the culprit in the act.

An animal communicator who lives in California had been highly recommended to me. I called her on Friday and told her what the problem was. She asked me the names of my cats and the hair color and eye color of each of them, as well as their ages and how long they had lived with me. That’s all I told her.

She hung up, contacted the cats telepathically, spoke with each of them, called me back, and told me that it was Miss Polly who’d been peeing. “She’s trying to get your attention,” she said. “Polly is very angry with you because you moved a red furniture.”

“What?”

“That’s what she told me,” Dr. Ryan said. “She said that you had moved a red furniture and she couldn’t sit on it to watch the birds out the window anymore.”

She was right. I had moved a big red overstuffed chair from my bedroom, where it sat in front of a window, to the middle of the living room. The peeing started the next day, right next to that chair.

I explained that to Dr. Ryan and asked, “Does this mean I can’t move my furniture?”

“No, not at all. You’re the mom. But Polly would appreciate if you would tell her before you move anything. Change scares here, and she’d like to know what’s going to happen.”

“Is she going to stop her peeing?”

“Yes,” Dr. Ryan said, “but she would appreciate it if you could put another chair or a table next to that window so she can watch the birds. And could you move the red chair closer to one of the living room windows?”

“Sure,” I said. “Not a problem.”

“By the way, Polly told me that she would like to have a regular job.”

“A job? For a cat? What kind of job do you give a cat?”

She made soothing noises. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

I mailed off a check to her. That night, I set my Zen alarm clock (which has an amazingly quiet little ding) for 6 a.m., since I had to be at an early meeting the following morning. Just before I went to sleep, I turned my head toward Polly, who was, as usual, sleeping next to my pillow, and said, “Polly, would you be sure to wake me up at 6:00 tomorrow morning? I don’t want to sleep through the alarm.”

The next morning I was in that semi-conscious state just before waking. The alarm hadn’t gone off yet. As it clicked, a second or two before the first ding, I felt three little pats on my cheek. I opened an eye. Polly’s head hung close to my face.

“Thank you, Polly,” I said, just as the alarm clock went ding,secretly sure that this was just a coincidence..

The next morning, when I might have slept in a bit, 6:00 came with three little pats on my cheek despite the fact that the alarm clock was not set.

The next morning, same thing. And the next. And the one after that.

When daylight savings time switches, we always have a week or so to adjust, and I’ve finally convinced her that 6:30 is more reasonable that 6:00.

Still, every single morning since then, she has woken me with those three little pats. If I stroke her back a couple of times and mumble “ten more minutes, Polly,” she’ll go away and come back a little later, sort of like a built-in snooze button. I can do that three times. After the 3^rd time, though, she puts her little paw directly onto my eyelid. That’s when I get up with no delay.

I asked Dr. Ryan once why I couldn’t hear my own cats.

“It’s because you aren’t really willing to hear everything they might tell you.”

I think she’s right. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t hear what the bees were saying.

BEEattitude for Day # 385:

       Blessed are those who listen well, for they shall be illuminated.

Happy 11-1-11 !

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The teeny details:
Coming Soon: VIOLET AS AN AMETHYST, the 6^th Biscuit McKee mystery