As a lot of you know, I’ve had a pretty rough couple of months after losing my hunting partner Nala. Esther, my barn owl, managed to pull me through, as I started working with her every day, handling, training. She started coming into a reptile shop where I volunteer, and was more than comfortable on top of the empty vivariums for sale in the corner. Considering she was barely 7 months old she was a doll, fantastic with children and adults, and was at peace being able to sleep throughout the day while in the shop in her own designated corner we had converted for her. Nearly three weeks she had been going in to work daily with me in the shop, and every day people were amazed by her grace and peacefulness; she was a true teacher to both children and adults.
It is with a heavy heart to say, I lost Esther a couple of weeks ago. There were no signs of illness, she’s health checked daily. I noticed when feeding one evening that she was lethargic and nonresponsive like a rag doll. It was 10:30pm. I rushed around, trying to get fluids into her and ringing other falconers and trying to get an emergency call specialist vets, but before they had a chance to drive the 20 minute journey she died in my mothers arms. Nala wasn’t with me at the time I lost her, she was staying with another falconer. In a way it was relieving, that I hadn’t seen her before I lost her, as it means that I didn’t feel to blame. Esther was with me. It is one thing to care for an animal, especially your partner, but losing an animal in your care is heartbreaking. Even more so considering birds hide their illness. There were no signs until suddenly, and she was gone within half an hour. Last summer I lost half of my snake collection; a viral disease developed after six months quarantine for every new snake introduced. Things like this make you consider: what if I had done this? Or maybe this? Maybe things would be different. Sometimes you can do everything right, but bad things always happen, and they have to happen to someone. To lose my snakes, one of my passions was one thing. To lose Nala, my partner, was another. Esther was a symbol of hope for me after I lost Nala. I could still have birds, still follow my passion and maybe feel a little bit less lost in the world when I was training her.
A month after I lost Nala I flew out to Geneva airport. My boyfriend had been working in northern Italy for five months. I had been reading H is for Hawk on the way, a reminder of Nala somewhat. As we landed, there was a common buzzard on a wooden post next to the runway. The back wheels touched the runway, and the buzzard took off, flying parallel to the window I was beside. It flew with us until the end of the runway, until the plane stopped. Of all the flights everyday, the fact if my plane had been delayed, or I had been seated on the opposite side of the plane I wouldn’t have been there. The fact that the random seat generated was at the window perfectly square next to the post as the wheels touched down. I’m not really superstitious, nor particularly religious, beliefs in the afterlife, have never really been my thing. In my heart, it was Nala. It gave me hope.
Two nights after I lost Esther, I was heading back to uni. A road me and my mother call ‘barney road’, after the little male barn owl we saw once. I make the trip several times a week, and in four years I’ve seen only this one male barn own once. We were both sat silent in the car, not wanting to consider our loss. A female barn owl veered across the top of our car diagonally into our headlights, and followed along side the car for a few moments, before heading into the fields nearby. A beautiful female. I had been sat crying for Esther to wake up when she was in my arms. I couldn’t lose her too, I kept apologising for what I feel in my heart is my fault even though I don’t know why she died. I felt it was an acceptance of my apology maybe, or just sending someone to check in.
People can laugh for what I thought about both incidents. Saying I’m looking too far into things. Maybe I am. But that’s the magic of birds of prey. To see wild birds is mesmerising. To hold the raw power and beauty of a bird on your arm is more so than any other feeling in the world. Not just a bird. Your partner. You look into your birds eyes, and see a reflection of yourself. The bird is never yours. You can pay for a bird, but you never own her. She is her, she is the power of the skies, with brute strength or unthinkable speeds and agility. You cannot buy her, but you can be her partner, if she allows, if she accepts you. Primal power, instinct, fear and fury. But hope, grace, and an unmatchable bond. That is true falconry.
