praise: Saint Francis and Boo Radley

I am married to the reincarnation of Saint Francis.

Paul just talks to the animals. He leans in, takes one look, and pronounces a completely logical and coherent expression of the animal’s emotions or needs. And every time it makes sense.

I don’t get it.

Sunday we walked down through Central Park from 90^th to the bottom and then hoofed it over asphalt to MOMA. We spent a good long time ogling at the design exhibit, and then holding pretty objects in our hands at the store. As we left past the glassy walls of the main entrance, my eye caught a yellow spot on the ground. It was a beautiful olive green, yellow, and black bird, lying lifeless on the sidewalk. Whether it had fallen from a nest or taken one in the noggin against the glass, I expected to see gore. Things of nature are so rare here, I thought. So unfortunate when they are dead.

Paul took one look, bent down, and gently placed one finger next to the bird’s side. The bird stirred, partially woke, and ambled aboard. Paul took off down the sidewalk, his dapper black New York trench flowing behind him, his new charge perched on his finger, like it wasn’t no thang.

Holy shit, I thought. He’s Saint Francis.

This isn’t the first time he’s talked to the animals. I’ve seen him perform surgery on injured parakeets and toads. But it had been a while since we had lived anywhere with a garden, since we had been in a place where one encounters species other than humans that aren’t manicured and dressed to match their owners.

We tried to release him in a safe place in the Park, but he wouldn’t leave Paul. This was no domestic bird, mind you, but he was badly stunned. Paul hiked that bird back across town to the subway in a Nalgene pressed against his chest. “He’s in bad shape,” St. Francis intoned. “He needs sleep.” We got him a little cage, some fluff and some food, and for sixteen hours he slept. At six the next morning, Paul woke up on instinct, and I heard the bird flapping around and chirping. “He’s awake,” said St. Francis, “But not strong enough yet to go out.” Like it wasn’t no thang.

You know the rescue tale. The animal becomes more lively, more animated, eats and drinks a bit, skids across the floor, poops on the Buddha statue, knocks over the sunflowers, explores nook and cranny, experiments with flying through computer screens. He had taken over the kitchen by the time I left for work and was nothing short of chipper when I got home to plow through and prep To Kill a Mockingbird.

I named him Boo, for his Zorro mask, and for the fact that he was officially being held indoors against his will. I think what got to him, besides needing more space to fly, was that I gave him a name. I also started hunting him with my camera. I knew we weren’t going to keep him, but I was trying to keep a part – a trace of him. Proof. I tried to be really, really subtle about both, ( taking a picture from all the way across the room without moving), but I think the capturing just went a little too far. He was wild. He was not for names. He was not posing. So I left him alone to twitter and flutter about, and just as I was tucking into Chapter 2 of Mockingbird, the silence in the house lasted a little longer than the usual ten minutes before play time, and he was gone.

Without getting too precious, I was startled by how I knew Boo had left. Yes, his pattern hadn’t repeated. But I also remarked how I just knew that his presence had left. This reminded me of other recent departures, grandmothers and zygotes, and how you just sense the departure of something. Boo was so light he couldn’t bend the leaf of an orchid standing at its tip. And yet when he was gone he was just gone.

I felt like a homing device as I look for him, making the ridiculous clucking noise I had used to try to imitate his little tick/chirp, desperately craning my neck to see if he was in a nearby tree. I stood by the refrigerator clucking and listening to be absolutely sure he hadn’t somehow slipped behind it. I felt like some kind of electronic mother hen, clucking t my fridge. A few minutes later I saw out my window, as a result of all the craning, a bright, rusty cardinal making a mess in the air of the dried seeds pods and looking around smugly with his impressive crown. Maybe they’re common here, but being new here, I was impressed.

Then Paul got home, and he appeared, twittering and skidding across the floor, out of nowhere. For two days he bounced across the furniture, swung from the mobile, ate and drank and pooped. He was a fun, fun wild little yellow Zorro-masked distraction. 

Boo was quite a beautiful little fluster.

You never know what kind of effect a wayward bird is going to cause.

And if you ever need a Bird Whisperer, I know a good one.