Owl Sense Page 13
This may be the case, but as a farmland bird they will be as vulnerable to changes in farming practices and the use of pesticides and rodenticides and other chemical interventions as the next bird. One serious issue may be the loss of nest sites as mature trees die off and are not replaced. Equally, as with the Barn Owls, many nesting sites in old agricultural buildings are falling into disrepair and not being replaced with anything useful to owls. In order to give a helping hand, the Barn Owl Trust and Nicholas Watts at Vine House Farm in South Lincolnshire (of Vine House Farm Bird Foods, a two-time recipient of the ‘Silver Lapwing’ award for farming and conservation), have pioneered the construction of ‘bird buildings’. These are tall towers that are suitable for tree sparrows, bats and other wildlife but have large enough nest holes for Barn Owls, Little Owls, stock doves and kestrels. If these wildlife-friendly buildings would catch on, some of the threatened birds and wildlife struggling to survive in our farmland might stand more of a chance and even begin to thrive.
Part of the charm of this diminutive predator, I think, is that though it may be tiny, it has charisma. The poet Mary Oliver captured some of the reason why it is so charismatic when she wrote that it is not its stature but its powerful energy, a ‘surge’ that puts us in touch with something visceral, and real.
*
I tell Benji that we have a special person coming to stay in our house.
‘Is it an owl? It’s an owl, isn’t it!’
I have his complete attention. It is indeed an owl who is coming to stay with us. Until now, I have been wary of looking after captive birds. An owl is the essence of wildness. Domesticated, what is left? Is it ever OK to keep these animals for our own uses? Tame – or as tame as an owl can be – their ankles tethered with jesses, their musculature weakened, trained to perform for the pleasure of humans, to me they can appear as sad as the captive dolphins that at one time were kept in tanks and used to perform for entertainment. Taken out of their context, away from the woods and fields and wild places, away from their hiding places and their seasons, devoid of their nesting and territories, what was left? Isolated and ungainly, they seem freakish, sad. Benji knows this argument and we have been over it together. How could a tame bird be anything like those in the wild, and what use will studying one be to me, anyway? What would it tell me more than I already know about wild animals being kept in captivity?
Perhaps that was the whole point. It might tell me something. Even if it was simply to confirm my opinions. But Benji’s excitement told me to open my mind; his childlike enthusiasm was teaching me to be curious in spite of my misgivings. And curiosity, after all, was what this quest was about.
The question mills around my head as we spend the morning cleaning and tidying together. We do this not because having a neat house will make any difference – nothing about the inside of our house will make any sense to the owl – but because in spite of myself I simply cannot sit still.
Our visitor is named Murray. He is a captive Burrowing Owl, and if that sounds as though it isn’t a real species please think again. Murray (named after the British tennis champion) is Athene cunicularia, a species native to the Americas, and very closely resembles our European Little Owl. I asked my friend Mike Toms, owl expert from the BTO, to help me understand why this resemblance existed, and he patiently explained that following recent taxonomic work, Burrowing Owl and Little Owl, from opposite sides of the Atlantic Ocean, are now in the same genus – because Athene cunicularia and Athene noctua share a (relatively) recent common ancestor. Depending on which source you read there are now thought to be between four and seven species in this genus, and there may be even more. So they resemble one another because they are closely related, rather than because of convergent evolution (where two unrelated species end up looking similar because they are being shaped by the same evolutionary pressures, just in different places). Somewhere way back, continental drift separated the species eventually producing several different Athenes. When this could have happened is known only to deep time, as far as I can see, as continental separation was happening between 200 and 100 million years ago.
I rush to my photographic bible, Owls of the World by Heimo Mikkola. Although owl taxonomy is even now still in flux, and new species are still being identified (the Northern Little Owl and the Grey-bellied Little Owl were only identified in 1988) it looks as though all the Athenes we currently know about are in there. There they are, staring crossly out of page after page: the Burrowing Owl, Athene cunicularia, from the Americas; Athene noctua, the Little Owl from Eurasia (‘There are possibly over ten subspecies within the Athene noctua genus alone!’ Emily told me); the beautifully pale Lilith Owl, Athene Lilith, found from southern Turkey and Cyprus to Israel, Sinai and the Arabian peninsula; the Ethiopian Little Owl, Athene spilogastra, found only on the western coast of the Red Sea from Eastern Sudan to Northern Somalia; the Grey-bellied Little Owl, Athene poikilis, so far found only in the West Sichuan Province in China; the Northern Little Owl, Athene plumipes, from the Russian Altai to Mongolia and parts of China; and Athene brama, the Spotted Little Owl or ‘Spotted Owlet’ in India and South East Asia whose earth-brown crown is so brightly spotted with speckles of white it looks as if it has been paint-flicked with a glittery toupé of tiny stars. Some of these have several subspecies, and as Mikkola points out the entire group of Athene is still in need of further taxonomic study. Exciting PhD or postdoctoral research with global travel opportunities, anyone? I feel tempted, as I do each and every time I open this delight of a book, but someone somewhere is probably on it, as we speak.
Spread south to north all the way across the Americas, our Burrowing Owl normally inhabits the deserts, savannahs, pine scrubs, pampas and plains from Tierra del Fuego and extreme south Argentina to a swathe of the western United States. There is even an isolated population in Florida. There are not any actual Burrowing Owls in Europe, nor anywhere else outside the Americas. Not in the wild, at least. We have only the Little Owl, and between the distant cousins lies a huge sweep of Atlantic Ocean separating them. In its behaviour and characteristics, though, there appears to be a kind of memory of distant ancestry.
Unaware of any of this, Murray the Burrowing Owl was bred from captive parents in a special owl-breeding centre in Cheshire, England. As the taxonomic name suggests, Athene cunicularia is the most terrestrial of all the owl species, and like the Little Owl it often runs after ground-dwelling prey on its athletic little legs. But there is a key difference. The Burrowing Owl doesn’t make its nest on the ground amongst roots or tree stumps like the Little Owl; it nests underground. ‘Cunicularia’ is derived from the Latin cunicularius meaning miner, or burrower. This clever Little Owl is able to excavate all by itself, but for ease it usually sequesters spare chambers in the burrows of mammals such as prairie dogs and rabbits.
In the US, faced with humans encroaching ever further into its territory, the Burrowing Owl has opted for the pragmatic approach and adapted to inhabit man-made areas: it can be found living on golf courses, in cemeteries, at airports, on pastureland and agricultural land, as well as moving in to nest in urban parks, on people’s drives and even in their gardens. Adaptable and resilient, it stands lookout on mounds of excavated earth and resembles our Little Owl almost perfectly, only a slightly more vigilant-looking, upright version. It stands up tall and straight, 19 to 25 centimetres tall, with a wingspan of 50 to 60 centimetres and a weight of around 140 grams (although females can be a good deal heavier than males, sometimes weighing up to 250 grams); its vital statistics are all similar to those of the Little Owl.
One look at its features and you can see why it has been grouped by taxonomists along with Athene noctua. But there are some subtle differences. The Burrowing Owl has slightly longer, lankier-looking, more sparsely feathered legs. Its upright stance perhaps evolved to look out for stealthy ground-dwelling threats such as the egg-gobbling, chick-swallowing rattlesnake; in a sandy environment it appears to behave the same way as the on-the-alert
standing to attention of meerkats. The familiar small-owl stare is almost identical to our Little Owl, however, and it emanates from the same piercing lemon eyes set beneath a prominence of seriously frowning white brows, all evolved no doubt to threaten and deter ferocious terrestrial predators.
In the dark burrow of his travelling box aboard the Virgin train that right now was rushing south towards us, Murray’s bright eyes would be softly closed in sleep. Nothing but the best for Murray: to minimise disturbance to passengers, and also to avoid the shock of any loud noise that might distress his sensitive ears, he always travels first class.
On the phone I ask his keeper Anita Morris whether chicken casserole will be OK for supper?
‘That’d be lovely, we both eat chicken,’ she tells me.
I make some mental adjustments. Will Murray be flying about while we eat? He might perch on the back of a chair at the table. Benji is too thrilled for words.
Parts of a day-old chick lie in the dark alongside Murray in his box as offerings just in case he wakes up hungry. The box has been made especially for him on his commute, for Murray is a working owl. More specifically, a therapy owl. He works with Anita and goes to raise awareness about birds of prey, to help the sick, visit the isolated and educate the young. Today he is travelling all the way from Widnes in Cheshire, watched over by Anita. I find myself feeling honoured that they are coming, and both Benji and I pace about and fidget restlessly as if a celebrity or film star is about to arrive.
But Murray is a celebrity. He has his own Twitter handle and regularly tweets as Murray the Owl. A book for children has been written about him entitled The Smallest Owl. Anita sent me a copy. Without wanting to give away any spoilers, the aim of the story is to depict and help with the feelings a very small person might experience in a world of an awful lot of big, noisy, clever, capable people. In the story, Murray (played by himself, in delightful photographs) feels very small. He wonders how he can possibly be of any use when everybody else appears so big, strong and capable. What can I say? We’ve all been there at some point in our lives. I remember some particularly scary maths lessons when I was about eleven years old. How I wish Murray had been there to sit on my shoulder and tell that terrified little girl that it was OK to say that I felt confused and instead of feeling worthless, and enduring that gnawing sense of failure, to remind me that actually there were plenty of other things that I was good at.
‘The book is designed to help build children’s self-esteem,’ Murray’s handler Anita explains. By identifying with little Murray and his moments of self-doubt, it helps young people towards self-awareness and self-confidence about their own talents and capabilities, however small they may feel. I think it’s about compassion, and self-compassion. It seems to me that this kind of emotional intelligence is exactly what we need right now. In schools, on buses, in businesses; everywhere. Anita’s work is tapping into something we all need. When I tried her book out on Jenny I noticed her eyes quietly well up in recognition. Another seventeen-year-old, Caroline, read it, and it had exactly the same effect. I think the book will be a hit. It seems to help us remember to be more human. I feel like suggesting there should be one for grown-ups, too.
Anita is a psychologist and director of Hack Back CIC, an innovative social enterprise that helps improve the mental health and well-being of people of different abilities, ages and backgrounds but, groundbreakingly, by using birds of prey. Having trained as a psychologist and with her research into emotional intelligence in business management, Anita became a life coach, but a coach with a difference. She and Murray work in schools, care homes, hospices and secure mental health units. Together Anita and Murray work as ambassadors, their pioneering work raising awareness of the benefits of combining psychological therapies with birds of prey interaction. This area of psychology is new: golden eagles can be used in leadership and management training; falconry can help bring autistic young people out of themselves; and Anita uses owls to work on people’s emotional understanding. Conquering one’s fear, maintaining a positive regard for the creature, trying to earn its trust, not taking advantage of it and learning to respect its animal otherness are all things that can help people’s well-being, empathy, creativity and happiness.
Our plan for now is simple: that Murray, Anita and I will spend some time together in Plymouth collaborating with Eloise Malone, Creative Director at Effervescent, a social enterprise charity in the city, and a group of children. We will be working in the Radiant Gallery, a space that curates exhibitions with children, and I will watch what happens. I’m fascinated to see how Anita works with the children and how they will react to Murray: if they can learn something from their time with him, if they can benefit, and what the outcome might be.
Before we can do this, however, we have to get Anita and Murray’s bedroom ready for their arrival, and above all make sure to firmly shut our very predatory cat Malinki in the kitchen.
Later, after we have all settled, enjoyed the chicken casserole and had some wine, Murray is perched atop the back of a chair, and the forgotten door creaks open. Malinki saunters into the room, tail up, all innocent, and the teacup-sized Murray turns into a puffed-up flagon, all staring eyes and angry chirps. The cat freezes in surprise, and with both of them rigid as bristle brushes I pick her up and rush her back into the kitchen. Benji sits with us after supper and we talk. He dons the glove and holds Murray. As the conversation flows I notice out of the corner of my eye that Benji has his face very close to Murray. He is very gently scratching him on the cere of his bill and Murray has tipped his head to one side and has closed his eyes.
‘Goodness, I didn’t know he liked that.’ Anita looks touched and thrilled all at once.
This isn’t the first time I’ve noticed that Benji has a gift for finding a creature’s friendly spot. He has a way with animals; if there’s a frog to be rescued, a spider to be ousted, a stray chicken to be rescued from a high branch and placed back in the hen house, or a nervous horse to be beckoned, Benji is usually the one to step in.
Benji and Murray quickly develop a rapport, despite the fact that, in the account of his life with owls, The House of Owls, naturalist Tony Angell describes how the Burrowing Owl was the species he found to be least amenable to human company. Once one was rescued and brought to him, and he described it inside its unopened box as a ‘demented gnome’ which in spite of being fed and looked after, turned into a wild dynamo and would never come to tolerate him. The Burrowing Owl, he concludes, is used to rugged desert life and shares territory with rattlesnakes, badgers and coyotes; a human is just another untrustworthy creature. When the owl escaped it jammed itself in a dark nook behind the bookcase and refused to come out. Angell prised it out, and built it an enclosure, but again the owl did what Burrowing Owls do and disappeared into the dark. When he needed to check its safety, Angell made the mistake of sinking his arm into the artificial cavity only to be met with a spine-prickling imitation of a rattlesnake, a sound so convincing that he instinctively whipped his arm back out, afraid to try again.
Just like the Little Owl in its natural habitat, the Burrowing Owl is in decline as agriculture and human settlements expand. Herbicides and pesticides are a threat in America in the same way as they are in Britain, destroying the bird’s natural prey, building up at the top of the food chain and weakening the owl’s system. It all sounds very familiar. As with all the other owls, raising awareness through education could help, such as the placing of nest boxes where the owls can be protected but also observed by interested visitors. Watching birds is good for mental health, the research tells us: it reduces anxiety, stress and depression and builds a well-being connection that might remain for life. Dr Daniel Cox, who led a research study on the links between birds and human well-being, found that interacting with birds provides health benefits particularly for urban dwellers. The research, published in the journal Bioscience in 2017, suggests that bird–human interactions are potentially of great value. And the value is for the
birds as well as for humans: we’ll truly work to protect and preserve something we recognise and have come to know and love.
*
Anita gets Murray out of his box in the city gallery where we are working with an assembled circle of children. There is a collective gasp. Such is the delight and amazement, it is as if we have thrown the windows open and snow is suddenly falling inside the room.
Murray stands in this enchanted globe of wonder and swivels his head around checking out each and every one of us.
Outside, in the ordinary world, beyond the tall windows, the odd bus or taxi rumbles past, pedestrians and shoppers shuffle up and down the street, but inside, here, there is magic. One moment there was a black travelling case, with mysterious holes for air to get in that you couldn’t see through, the next minute the little door creaked open and like a celebrity, out scuttled Murray the Burrowing Owl.
Amidst our wonderment, all soft speckles and brown feathers and bright eyes, quite reptilian, he runs on his bony little legs, his talons tippety-tapping with his ankle-bracelet jesses trailing on the polished wooden floor. The children hold their breath in adoration.
The owl commands the space. The aura of awe holds our circle that is no longer an ordinary circle but an owl-circle. Then, very quietly – they have been told that Murray’s hearing is very sensitive – they begin to fill the bubble of silence with murmurs. In soft little bursts, we speak of how small he is, how beautiful and perfect he is, and at the same time how fierce-looking. Those eyes! Nothing escapes them. And in the echoing space of the gallery every sound, every minute movement and rustle, must crash into those feathered listening devices. We all want to reach out and touch, but we know from Anita that he may not want to be stroked, and we must respect that. There is a defiance in his stance, perhaps a remnant of the visceral wildness that Angell saw in his rescued Burrowing Owl when it hissed like a maddened rattlesnake at him.