strays

It seems that everything in my mom’s life is a stray. 

She has had 2 dogs:  Rafi and Annie.  Both were strays.  One brought into the vet clinic she worked at and ended up coming home with her.  The other wandered up to her while downtown and never left her side.  She is the dog you see in the earlier photos with Ladybug.

She rescued 2 birds:  A barn swallow and some other long beaked bird I can’t remember.  I spent an entire summer killing flies in the goat barn to feed them.  We were the only barn free of flies by about half way through a hot summer.

And cats:  Lots and lots and lots of cats.  It started with Dude, progressed with Sappho, and continued all the way down to Moses.  In between were hundreds of cats.  And I am not exaggerating.  At one time she had 24 cats.  Seriously.  When she and her partner split up the split the cats.  She is not a cat hoarder.  Her house is meticulously clean all the time.  I have no animals and her house is cleaner than mine.

She is down to 1 cat now.  Not by choice.  Her latest cat – Moses – hates other cats.  And since he is psychotic – literally – he rules the roost.   She loves him.  Adores him.  Treats him as her baby.  She found him…left for dead…at about 3 days old…under the bush in front of the bank.  She bottle fed him.  But he is crazy.  He takes medication to help keep him from going over the edge.  They may all be strays but she loves every single one of them.

Oh, and her kids:  Me and my sister.  She wasn’t looking for us either, just another day at work when walked into her life.  Bet she never imagined that would lead to being a mother.

I tell you all this so you understand my reaction to the following story.

We headed out one night for the 2 hour drive to my grandmother’s house for a couple of days.  My grandmother is 85 and still living alone in the mountains.  It is a hard thing for the family.  She has a serious heart condition but she refuses to give up her independence.  So we sit back – for now.  We were about 10 minutes outside of my mom’s town when we passed by what appeared to be a very large bird dead on the side of the road.  As we passed though the bird spread it’s wings as my mother looked in her rear view mirror.  She slammed on the breaks and pulled off to the side.

Me:  What?

My Mama: It’s not dead.  It’s hurt.

Me:  So what exactly are you going to do (I can just see the comedy unfolding)?

My Mama:  I have to help.

Me: You have a dog, a child, and 2 adults in a corolla.  Where do you think you are going to put an injured hawk? (We later found out it was a Red Tail Hawk)

My Mama:  Your right (grabbing her phone).  I am going to have to call someone.

Yep, that is my mom.  Stop.  Help.  Make it right.  I might need to be prepared to strap this thing to the roof rack.

Within a few minutes another person has stopped and started to help with traffic control.  Okay, this is the mountains.  In the middle of nowhere, between 2 small towns.  Basically they wave down everyone so that they aren’t speeding past this bird.  My mom is afraid that the bird will get sucked into the wind current of the passing cars.

Next the wife of a man on the local wild life refuge has stopped to help.  And several other kind hearted people.  I stay with the dog (who watches out the window hoping she is not being left behind by her mama) and child (who is using this chance to nap).

I consider the option of taking photos – for this blog – but then think that is morbid.  I don’t think I should take photos of an injured bird that people are trying to help.

After about half hour the state trooper shows up.  She makes some calls.  They are trying to decide what to do, who to call.  Then the bird spreads his wings and flies off.  Gone.  Well at least it is not strapped to the roof of a car.

We are late by ½ hour.  But when we tell my grandmother she is not at all surprised.

The next day my mother finds a perfect large Red Tail Hawk feather on my grandmother’s beach.  I should have taken a photo of that.

Mean Mama