Who Gives a Hoot?--Calpurnia Tate, Girl Vet by Jacqueline Kelly

Author:Jacqueline Kelly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co. (BYR)

4

“Gosh!” I said.

“Good heavens,” said Dr. Pritzker.

“Yes, the predatory instinct is impressive,” said Granddaddy. “Think of the owl as a machine built by Nature to hunt mice—moving mice, that is. Its hunting instinct is triggered by a small animal moving quickly. This instinct exists in larger animals as well, and that is why one should never run from a bear or vicious dog—it will pursue you.”

We could see the bulge of the mouse moving down the esophagus to the stomach. Not a pretty sight. (I was really glad Travis wasn’t there. He’d have keeled over on the spot. It’s handy he turns a pale greenish color before he flops over; it’s usually enough of a warning for me to catch him before he hits the ground.)

Granddaddy went on, “The owl digests the mouse’s flesh, but it cannot digest the fur or tail or skeleton. It will bring the skeleton back up in a few hours encased in a pellet.”

“Bring them back up … as in…?” I said.

“Regurgitate, yes.”

“Oh.”

“The pellets make for interesting study, containing, as they do, the mouse’s skeleton.”

“Ah.”

“I’m sure you’ll have a fascinating time dissecting it.”

“Ah. Yes. I’m sure I will.”

“Our new friend looks like it will be with us for a while, so we better think about a cage and a jess.”

“What’s a jess?” I said.

“It’s a leather ribbon you tie around the owl’s foot to use as a leash. People who hunt with falcons and hawks use them to control the birds. And you’ll need a stout leather glove and a cage to keep it in, of course, until it heals from whatever is ailing it.”

“So you think it will live?” I asked Dr. Pritzker.

“Well, it certainly has an appetite, and I can’t find anything obviously wrong, so those are both good signs. If it refused food, I’d be a lot more worried about it. But I won’t be able to keep it here,” he said, looking at me. “It’s going to need good nursing care and regular feedings, and it will be important to keep the cage clean.”

Now Granddaddy was looking at me as well.

“Oh. Okay,” I said.

And just like that I was elected the owl wrangler. Which I supposed would be quite interesting except for the part about feeding it five mice per day. Every single day.

How would we get it home? And then I remembered Polly the Parrot, who lived across the street at my father’s cotton gin. Polly was a huge bird who usually spent his time walking back and forth on a perch in the manager’s office, where he regularly alarmed visitors with his own sudden shrieks and hooked beak and sharp black claws. Polly had a carry cage that was seldom used, and I felt sure it would fit our new patient.

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