The Eagle

When I was in vet school, I took one of the best classes of my life: Raptor Handling. Every week, us vet students would meet our instructor in a patch of dirt at an off-campus facility.

It was a rehab center for injured raptors (as in "birds of prey", not "clever girl"). If a wild raptor needed rehabilitation or prolonged captivity, it was brought here.

The vet students, on the other hand, came there to learn how to do something dangerous. Well—with an element of danger, at least. I mean, it was riskier than a freshman chem lab!

Handling raptors is tricky. They murder other animals for a living. They have sharp talons. Sharp beaks. They cut and stab and tear flesh as a matter of course. But to deliver any sort of medical care, you need to get in close.

And that means putting your own hands up against a weaponized bird foot.

I like my hands. I still use them a lot. They've done quite a bit of good for me, including spoon-feeding me Cinnamon Toast Crunch™ and typing up this story. I'm not eating that cereal now, I just mean that I'm thanking them for their historical and current value. Know what I mean?

My hands are valuable to me, because they let me manipulate (for lack of a better word) the world as I see fit. Which is important for a veterinarian, or cartoonist, or storyteller or whatever else I might be trying to be in any specific moment.

Anyway–the whole point is that I don't love putting my hands in danger.

But to handle a raptor, you have to. If you can hold their feet just above the talons, you can safely control the most dangerous part of the animal. And like any good class, Raptor Handling 101 started off with small, achievable goals.

The first bird of prey we got to touch was a saw-whet owl. This minuscule predator only weighs four ounces and has to eat mice in multiple pieces. Of course, they still have the heart of a killer, but can only harm you about as much as a pair of dull nail clippers.

But even catching little owls requires some boldness. You can't just dangle your fingers in there like you're tempting a pet snake with a dead mouse. You've got to move confidently, assertively, and gently to handle the animal.

Things would be easier if they would just cooperate. If we could speak telepathically in Raptorese, we'd be able to convince them that the humans aren't gonna hurt them. And if they'd just let us help them, they'd be back flying and hunting and doing all the other good stuff they need to do in the wild.

It would be easier, and it might even be more fun.

But it doesn't work that way.

In real life, raptors are powerful birds. And they hate being handled. Gaining "control" over one takes slow, steady progression, lots of mistakes, and ever-increasing doses of adrenaline as you move up to bigger species: falcons and barn owls, then red-tailed and Swainson's hawks.

Bird strength is different from mammal strength. It's because they need to be so light in order to fly, so they have hollow bones and all that. But they're actually frikkin' muscular. You just can't compare one pound of guinea pig to one pound of falcon in the same way. A 2-lb hawk might be able to send you to the hospital if you're not careful.

Week after week though, your hands turn into raptor-handling tools. Your brain looks at a bird of prey and starts thinking about how you'd catch it.

Honestly, it feels pretty awesome.

But confidence wants a challenge. And–I told you this was a great class, right? Well this one had a heck of a final exam.

A golden eagle.

Ten pounds of eagle (Aquila chyrsaetos, for those of you playing "Linnean Taxonomy!" at home) is about as intimidating as you can get in a flying animal. Bird, strength, remember? Don't think of it weighing the same as a kid's bowling ball, think of it as a killer with a seven-foot wingspan who drags adult goats off cliffs.

You don't enter the eagle cage without respect and humility.

They know why you're there. They look you in the eye and invite you to risk your hands.

And they certainly don't think of themselves as handle-able.

In a really great class, or just any period of learning, growth, whatever–there's this transformation of the impossible. It begins to seem achievable. You can see an animal that regularly kills and eats foxes, and somehow find in yourself a little bit of confidence.

Sure, there's something seductive about adrenaline. I do, I like the thrill of being around wild animals, dangerous animals. Hell– I watched a lot of Crocodile Hunter as a kid. I've been compelled to some extraordinary places and situations. I've had unbelievable interactions with nature. Maybe it's all about my ego. Maybe I've just been a tourist. That is possible.

But eagles do get injured. And if we want to help them, or we want stories that document our relationship with the animal world, then well–somebody's gotta get in there and use their hands. Somebody's gotta build skills week after week and enter the eagle cage, risk themselves and do what needs to be done.

Sign me up.