Moe and Curly found their way to me three years ago, just after we moved into this neighborhood. At first, I just watched them as they meandered past the house. Then they began lingering in the front yard. When I walked outside to watch them, they didn’t leave. I talked to them, and they seemed to be comfortable in my presence.
I researched the birds, and found that they were Sandhill Cranes, (a species I’d never even heard of.) They are among the oldest birds in North America, and when I hear their call, I am always reminded of dinosaurs; something prehistoric. When I watch them fly overhead, I imagine that Pterodactyls looked very similar. They are amazing to watch.
I began feeding them bits of bread, at first wary of them. They stand four to five feet tall, after all, and have very long beaks. I merely threw the tidbits on the ground in front of me, though and they would come just close enough to grab them.
After some time, I decided to try holding a bit of bread in my hand, and Moe (as I called the larger of the pair) would take it from my hand, somewhat apprehensive but too hungry to turn it down, or so I surmised. In time, Curly would occasionally take a piece from my hand as well. I didn’t press the issue. I wasn’t entirely convinced that it was a “good” thing for them to trust me, as I know there are some people in whom they should not place their trust.
A few months ago, I was badly startled when I opened the door from the laundry room to the open garage and, thinking I was alone, saw movement as I tossed a bag of trash into the bin. There was Moe, only feet from me and well inside the garage. Watching me intently.
I always talk to them. Having been told for years that my voice has a soothing quality, I find it does seem to put them at ease. I also hope that my voice sets me apart from others who might try to get close to the birds; that they will shy away from those who should not be trusted.
A part of me worries that they will come to be too accustomed to humans, through me. Still, I can’t seem to stay away. Watching them is one of the great joys in my day… and they visit almost daily. I have wished since the beginning that I “could” reach out and touch them, but I don’t try. Once or twice, I have nearly brushed against one or the other, and immediately, they take two or three steps back and then keep their distance.
A few days ago, Moe came to me with a problem. He had a small twig protruding sideways from his beak, from the nare. It went through the beak, from side to side. I could not imagine how it came to be there, but assumed it had to be uncomfortable, and he did seem somewhat bothered by it. His appetite was unaffected, but I know it must have been nearly impossible for him to dig with his beak, and they do seem to spend a lot of their time digging in the grass for insects and other food.
Oh, how I wished I could help him, but I didn’t dare try to get that close, or to touch him.
The second day he came to me like that, I couldn’t control myself. I’m a “fixer,” after all. I hate seeing an animal hurting, too. And Moe did seem comfortable. I reached toward him slowly, but each time my hand was within two or three inches of his beak, he jerked his neck back and then took his three steps away. He returned, but after my third attempt, he left without even eating what I’d offered.
On the third day he came to me with the stick protruding, I thought he looked more disheveled than usual. I felt certain that if I did NOT do something, things would go from bad to worse with him. After feeding him several pieces of bread, I decided to try a new tactic. I put a small piece of bread in the palm of my hand, and held it toward him, palm up. Very slowly, he came near… and I let him take the piece from my hand. A second time, he did the same.
The third time he came for a piece from my hand, my fingers curled around his beak, with a light touch. He pulled his head back and as my fingers met the stick, I realized it was not tightly lodged; just awkwardly. I let go. He took his three steps back.
He came in for one more piece of bread, the last I had. As quickly as I could, I once again curled my fingers around his beak. The stick was between my thumb and forefinger, and I tightened my thumb against my hand and pulled it away, to the side. The stick slid through his beak, as he pulled his head back.
I looked down at it, in my hand. He was looking, too. And I realized something else.
He had not taken his normal three steps back. He stood there, almost eye to eye with me, and didn’t flinch.
“I could pet him, now.” I thought to myself. I knew that I could. Instead, I laughed softly and called him my silly dinosaur bird… resisting the urge. I went inside, got another small scrap of bread, and held it out to him. One for Curly, too, who stood just behind and to his right.
“Trust,” I told myself aloud, “should not be taken for granted, and should not be abused. You are still a wild bird, Moe and not subject to my whims.”
I told them I think they are amazing, and I went inside to ponder that amazing trust.
