Birdology by Sy Montgomery

Author:Sy Montgomery
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2010-04-02T16:00:00+00:00

An eager hunting partner flies to master falconer Nancy Cowan’s glove.

In her short lifetime, Smoke has not yet killed a pheasant, but she has chased three. Her first time was just three weeks ago, right here. Smoke was on Nancy’s glove. Right in front of her, Stormy got a point, a hen pheasant flew up, Smoke chased it. And from that moment on, Smoke understood that the dog was an integral part of the hunt.

Now, the pheasant flies toward a distant pond, and the red-tail flies after it. Smoke wants to follow, too. But the red-tail is a real danger to her now. Smoke takes off.

“SMOKER!” Nancy yells at the hawk, furious, frightened. “Don’t go there! I know the pheasant went there …” She blows the whistle. Smoke circles, lands in a tree, and looks down at us, disgusted. “She’s mad she missed that pheasant,” says Nancy. We’ll try for another. “Stormy!” she commands. “Hunt ’em up!”

But the dog, too, is frustrated. She can’t find another scent. She heads toward the tree where Smoke is perched.

“NO!!” Nancy yells. She knows what is happening: Sometimes if a dog can’t find a pheasant or grouse, it’ll go for the nearest bird—the hawk. And that makes the hawk furious: “Don’t you point me, you moron!” Once Stormy pointed Jazz, and the hawk, enraged at the dog’s stupidity and overcome by yarak, shrieked in fury and frustration and flew at Stormy with her talons. Nancy had to extract Jazz’s feet from the dog’s snout.

It seems inevitable: it will be a bloody, dangerous day. Yet I am not disgusted or distraught. I am living through my eyes now.

We’ve been searching for a good twenty minutes when, at 10:00 a.m., Nancy announces, “We’ve got a point!” Again Smoke is watching the dog intently. “She knows Stormy is birdy. Sometimes the bird sees ’em and wants the dog to flush ’em. Eventually they figure out a way to communicate that,” Nancy says.

We’re tromping over rough territory. Later I find that my pants are torn, my legs scratched and bloody. We’re both sweating with exertion on this cool late autumn day to keep up with dog and bird. “You see why it’s called ‘hunting’ and not ‘getting,’” says Nancy. “You are seeing the essence of the hunt. Even if she doesn’t get the game, the slip on game”—the chance to chase it—“is valuable.”

And that is all Smoke will get today—a chase, but no catch. Nancy lets her attack the baited lure to satisfy her yarak and puts her back in her carrier. “Raptors are never happy,” says Nancy. “They are always wanting, wanting to hunt. And if they are full, they are just flatlining.” They are content, perhaps—but really, it is like their souls are in storage, awaiting the next chase.

At 10:50, we go to pick up the two quail that the owner of the hunting preserve has set out for us. He has left them in a little pet carrier in the garage. I look inside and my heart melts.

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