Flying Critters

S wanted a parakeet. He got a blue bird he called Dandy Jim. It was pretty, and dirty. A lot of squawk and seed kicked and thrown all around the cage. (And, on the floor) Not to mention the paper that Dandy Jim pulled up off his cage floor and shredded and messed on, which needed changed every day. And birds are not affectionate. Dandy Jim was fine, but I decided it wasn't a pet I ever wanted. But, S and Mom enjoyed Dandy Jim. Mom use to let him out of his cage to fly around the house. At first just long enough to clean his cage. His wings were clipped a bit then so he didn't fly much. But, they soon quit clipping and let him out longer. This led to a discovery that was very amusing. Dandy Jim started dive bombing the soap bubbles in the dish water. He would fly through them, making bubbles fly all over. He seemed to really enjoy this sport. Mom started using more soap to build higher mounds of bubbles. But, as the pile of bubbles dispersed, Dandy Jim would fly lower......till he got too low and came up soaking wet and squawking mad. Still, the next time anyone did dishes, he was right there waiting for a big pile of bubbles to dive bomb. He was definately S's bird. When S was in the house, Dandy Jim would be on his head or shoulder. They seemed to understand each other. It all ended one day when Dandy Jim managed to escape through a door when someone came in. He was gone. One of life's unfair ironies...why did it have to be S who discovered the blue feathers and evidence of a cat meal.

Then S decided he wanted a baby bat. He told us all that he found it on the floor of the barn and rescued it. I've just learned that he knew he would be in trouble if he admitted climbing to the peak of the barn roof where the wall meets the roof and, with leather gloves, reached in and pulled out the baby bat. (I'm not surprised) When he brought it to the house, Mom called our Veterinarian for advice on how to save it. Between Mom and the Vet a plan was formed. At first the baby bat was kept in a coffee can with cheese cloth stretched across the top and held in place with a rubber band. Steve (or Mom) named him Mickey, because he looked like a little mouse both in color and soft fur, with his wings tucked in tight against his body. We would put Mickey in the coffee can, attach the cheese cloth and tip the can till he could climb to the cloth. Then we could set it upright and Mickey would climg to the cheese cloth and hang in his coffee can cave. Feeding the baby bat was fun. The vet had actually done this. We would cup our palms with the fingers slightly apart and pointing up. Mickey would cling upside down to a finger and drink warm milk from our palms. When he got a little bigger, Mom and Steve made a cheesecloth cave out of Dandy Jims cage. This gave Mickey room to crawl around and hide in folds of cloth. I don't know how long they planned to keep him, but we all knew he would have to be released to fly and find insects. Meanwhile, Mickey went to Sunday School where he was a lesson in loveing all of Gods creatures. Up close and personal most kids got over their fear. Mickey was soooo soft and his wings were very fragile with little claws at the tips. Mom wasn't sure he would be safe on the bus, so she drove us and he was taken to our grade school. We didn't have "show and tell" but that would describe the trip to school. We each had him in our classroom for part of the day. Not everyone managed to touch him, (some were just too afraid) but they all wanted to see us feed him milk. Mickey was a special lesson and we all grew attached to him. Alas, despite our efforts, Mickey had an accident too. Though at first Mom told us she let him go and we didn't find out till years later the sad ending. Mickey's cage had been left too close to the oil stove in the living room one night when it turned cold and the heater kicked up higher. Mom woke up in the morning to find a baked bat. I like to think his life wasn't in vain. Although we still ducked and avoided the bats in the barn, we didn't feel the need to swing two by fours at them anymore.

J and S were out hunting one day. S thinks they were hunting rabbit. They discovered 8 little black hens wandering along the railroad track. They looked a little like Banties, but were some breed we couldn't identify. The brothers "herded" them all the way to the house. These eight free ranged around the farm awhile, but we never found any nests or eggs. We didn't have chickens, so someone got a white rooster from Uncle W. We still couldn't find the nests, but they started having chicks. Chicks, chicks, and more chicks. The little chicks were darling. Shiny black with some lighter markings.They were fiesty and always fighting among themselves. The new grown roosters used to go at each other with spurs and they looked like the fighting cocks we'd seen on T.V. Mom did some research and decided they were Japanese Fighting Cocks, mixed with Uncle W's white rooster. They must have fallen of a train, though the boys never found a crate, I understand that fighting cocks are fitted with metal blades, but the spurs on the back of these chickens legs were still wicked when they attacked. They would fly right up in the air with feet out in attack mode. Once the population had grown, we could find eggs, but they were small and unfit to eat. Mom tried to cook the some of our rapidly expanding flock, but the meat was oily and shiny blue black. It tasted like chicken, but it was too hard to look at and eat. None of us wanted it, no matter how she fixed it. Now we had a problem. They were multiplying like fleas and we had fighting cocks everywhere. They attacked our dog and the farm cats. And it wasn't safe for us to walk across the barnyard. Aggressive chickens were taking over. So the boys and some of their friends were given permission to take their shotguns out an a mass chicken murder. Now, don't get all teary eyed for the 120 or so chickens. If you'd had a chicken with sharp spurs fly at you just once, you'd want to shoot it too.