All the “guests” at LWR were settled snug in their beds on Christmas Eve when vet Shelley Baumann texted me on behalf of her husband, DNR wildlife biologist Chris Baumann, to ask if I had room for a bald eagle. Seems his colleague, John Vescuso, had been alerted to a grounded BE a couple of counties away and was ready to transport if I could take it.
(And before anybody reaches rhapsodic heights of delirious joy at the notion of a majestic bald eagle, let me explain one major fact here: Bald eagles are ill-tempered, aggressive snots.)
When I met John to get the bird, he said he thought it might have been shot. The wing was bloody. Rather than me fighting the bird to get it into one of my boxes for transport home, he told me to just keep the storage box he had it in. He said it was feisty, evidenced by the sides of the box bowing as it fought to escape.
Once I was home with the bird, my nephew and niece-in-law came to help me set up a box for my Christmas guest and examine the injured wing. We worked by flashlight, as we were attempting to keep the BE’s stress levels as low as possible and make the transfer from the small storage box to the larger box easier for us.
First thing I always do with raptors is restrain the feet, so I reach for his feet—properly gloved, of course. I grab the feet and pull the bird out of the small box. Foot size and general body size indicate male. First thing the BE does is whack me in the mouth with the “wrist” of his right wing. Then I ease off a glove to examine the wings. He jerks his head around as I reach for the right wing and grabs my finger in his beak. Hey, it’s my fault—I took off the glove. But there’s no way to properly examine a bird with gloves on. Occupational hazard.
My nephew is getting ready to freak out: “What do I need to do? Do you want me pry him loose?”
I let my hand go limp and tell my nephew to flip the flashlight against his body. As soon as the light’s gone, the BE relaxes his grip slightly and I can jerk my finger from his beak. No serious damage done—just a small scrape. I finish examining his wings. He has a fresh wound on his left wing, still bleeding.
We get him in the larger box, and I leave him alone for the night. Can’t get him to the vet until Thursday, since tomorrow’s Christmas Day.
Christmas Day, he glares at me when I ease into the room where his box sits and take a few photos before tossing a couple of fish in for him, to see if he’ll eat. Not while I’m watching, by God, so I leave the room and wait an hour or so before checking back. Yep, he’ll eat. Nothing wrong with his appetite!
(And before anybody reaches rhapsodic heights of delirious joy at the notion of a majestic bald eagle, let me explain one major fact here: Bald eagles are ill-tempered, aggressive snots.)
When I met John to get the bird, he said he thought it might have been shot. The wing was bloody. Rather than me fighting the bird to get it into one of my boxes for transport home, he told me to just keep the storage box he had it in. He said it was feisty, evidenced by the sides of the box bowing as it fought to escape.
Once I was home with the bird, my nephew and niece-in-law came to help me set up a box for my Christmas guest and examine the injured wing. We worked by flashlight, as we were attempting to keep the BE’s stress levels as low as possible and make the transfer from the small storage box to the larger box easier for us.
First thing I always do with raptors is restrain the feet, so I reach for his feet—properly gloved, of course. I grab the feet and pull the bird out of the small box. Foot size and general body size indicate male. First thing the BE does is whack me in the mouth with the “wrist” of his right wing. Then I ease off a glove to examine the wings. He jerks his head around as I reach for the right wing and grabs my finger in his beak. Hey, it’s my fault—I took off the glove. But there’s no way to properly examine a bird with gloves on. Occupational hazard.
My nephew is getting ready to freak out: “What do I need to do? Do you want me pry him loose?”
I let my hand go limp and tell my nephew to flip the flashlight against his body. As soon as the light’s gone, the BE relaxes his grip slightly and I can jerk my finger from his beak. No serious damage done—just a small scrape. I finish examining his wings. He has a fresh wound on his left wing, still bleeding.
We get him in the larger box, and I leave him alone for the night. Can’t get him to the vet until Thursday, since tomorrow’s Christmas Day.
Christmas Day, he glares at me when I ease into the room where his box sits and take a few photos before tossing a couple of fish in for him, to see if he’ll eat. Not while I’m watching, by God, so I leave the room and wait an hour or so before checking back. Yep, he’ll eat. Nothing wrong with his appetite!
So we now wait until Thursday morning…I get up bright and early with plans to be at Smalley’s Animal Hospital as soon as they open. Get all the other critters cared for, get dressed, call Smalley’s to alert them I’m bringing in a bald eagle—they’re ready; we’re good to go.
His box falls apart as I attempt to pick it up. He’s pooped under and around the edges of the puppy pad, and his poop has destroyed the box. I vent my frustration loudly as I go get my large crate. Cardboard boxes are better, as they deaden sound and block disturbing visual stimuli, which is why I always ask people to use cardboard boxes when they bring me birds. But I used my last two boxes creating a “holding cell” for this bird Christmas Eve, so…crate it is…dammit…
My niece meets me at Smalley’s to man the camera while we examine the eagle, as I know from experience that I won’t be able to hold this bird with one hand and snap pix with the other. After a very short wait, vet Richie Hatcher helps me move the crate into the exam room, where vet tech Autumn Parker asks if I want to go ahead and “suit up” for x-rays before we commence getting the bird out. Good thinking! Then the fun begins…
The BE wigs out and flails his wings around wildly when I reach in for his feet, but I get him out, with a death grip on those big ol’ feet. He then slaps me about the head and shoulders with his wings, starting the left wing bleeding again in the process, and smearing blood all over my neck. Meanwhile, my niece has taken cover behind a chair and all you can see is her arm holding the camera over its back. Oh what fun, right?
His box falls apart as I attempt to pick it up. He’s pooped under and around the edges of the puppy pad, and his poop has destroyed the box. I vent my frustration loudly as I go get my large crate. Cardboard boxes are better, as they deaden sound and block disturbing visual stimuli, which is why I always ask people to use cardboard boxes when they bring me birds. But I used my last two boxes creating a “holding cell” for this bird Christmas Eve, so…crate it is…dammit…
My niece meets me at Smalley’s to man the camera while we examine the eagle, as I know from experience that I won’t be able to hold this bird with one hand and snap pix with the other. After a very short wait, vet Richie Hatcher helps me move the crate into the exam room, where vet tech Autumn Parker asks if I want to go ahead and “suit up” for x-rays before we commence getting the bird out. Good thinking! Then the fun begins…
The BE wigs out and flails his wings around wildly when I reach in for his feet, but I get him out, with a death grip on those big ol’ feet. He then slaps me about the head and shoulders with his wings, starting the left wing bleeding again in the process, and smearing blood all over my neck. Meanwhile, my niece has taken cover behind a chair and all you can see is her arm holding the camera over its back. Oh what fun, right?
I’m trying to get his back against my chest to restrain him fully when the vicious snot lunges toward my face and takes a bite out of my jaw. Again—my fault. I started to bring my face shield and got sidetracked by the box cock-up. It’s bleeding a fair bit, they tell me, but it actually barely stings—maybe the adrenaline is in full force? I dunno. Everybody else seems more worried about it than I am.
Caitlan, my niece, took this after we'd gotten the eagle back in his crate and I'd taken the bandage off--see? Not too bad! Still didn't get all his blood off my face, though, right along the jawline...
We get him restrained. Richie looks at the wing and agrees with me that it doesn’t feel like anything’s broken. We get the eagle to the x-ray room, where it takes me, Richie and Autumn to restrain him on the table. X-rays reveal no fractures, no lead fragments anywhere in his body. Hallelujah!
Arrow points to the chunk of flesh missing on his left wing. Neat that the x-ray shows that, huh?
While we have him fairly well-restrained, Richie cleans and medicates the wing. We weigh him: 6 pounds, 12 ounces. He hasn’t missed any meals! Richie gives the BE an antibiotic injection, as well.
We then get him back into his crate and while Richie composes the requisite letter informing the feds that he’s seen the bird and briefly describing his treatment and prognosis, I call Laurie and Marshall Jackson, volunteers who transport birds between me and Steve Hicks of Bubba & Friends Raptor Rehab. Steve has the necessary eagle permit and will complete the BE’s rehabilitation over the next couple of weeks. (While eagles have been delisted, they’re still highly regulated. It takes a separate permit from the regular raptor permit I possess to do more than triage and transfer them.) Steve, God help him, now has the ill-tempered cuss…
To paraphrase the Eleventh Doctor, I wear a facial bandage now. Facial bandages are cool. (Doctor Who reference, for the clueless.)
All things considered, I'd rather be bitten by a bald eagle than footed by one!
Our goal, in two weeks or so, is to put this adult male back in his home territory, as his mate was seen with him just prior to his capture for assessment and treatment.
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